The Return
by anamatics
Summary: Storybrooke is like any other of those small, dying fishing villages that dot the Maine coastline. A crusty remnant of an industry long gone, a place that is mired in sadness and longing for what was and can never be again. You're born there and you die there. Emma was an orphan, not quite worthy of the love of the town; and now she's returned as a pariah. Non-Magic AU.
1. Chapter 1

Storybrooke is like any other of those small, dying fishing villages that dot the Maine coastline. A crusty remnant of an industry long gone, a place that is mired in sadness and longing for what was and can never be again. You're born there and you die there.

Every day the same boats leave the harbor and every day the same boats come back with a smaller and smaller catch. People move away, and yet they always seem to come back. It's a vicious cycle of small-town America, and everyone knows it.

Emma Swan thought that she'd bucked the trend on a basketball scholarship that took her all the way across the country, and for a while, she was right. Things changed, though, as she stumbled through life in a strange city. She fell in with a bad crowd and found herself on the wrong side of the law, looking at up to five years for possession of stolen goods. She'd made her peace with it, and had served her time and tried to live away from everyone she'd ever known and loved. Now though, down on her luck and needing a fresh start, she's put herself on a bus across the country, rumbling steadily towards a dead-end destination. Her hometown. Storybrooke, Maine.

Going back there means that she's been defeated and that she's not worthy of the faith that the entire town put behind their shining star. She was an orphan, not quite worthy of the love of the town; and now she's returned as a pariah.

**The Return**

_a fanfic by anamatics_

**_"_**Well I was born in a small town  
And I live in a small town  
Prob'ly die in a small town"

-John Mellencamp

* * *

**Swan Leads Small-Town Team to Showdown with PHS**

Portland Press Herald, March 7th, 2002

AUGUSTA – With the host school's team eliminated in a double-overtime frenzy yesterday evening to the upset minded Storybrooke Lady Knights, all that stands between them and the state title are defending state title holders, the Portland High School Lady Bulldogs. The game is scheduled to be played at a neutral location as the schools are on opposite ends of the state and the state athletics board has made an exception to keep the teams on more equal footing.

Storybrooke, coached by long-time veteran coach Leo Blanchard, starts four seniors and holds a 30-4 overall record (26-4 regular season). Lead by starting point guard, Emma Swan (17pts 5.2 ast, 2 stl avg.), Storybrooke has come out of nowhere to blaze their way through the Northeast Division playoffs to find themselves in on the brink of history. It has been over ten years since a team outside of Portland, Bangor or Augusta won a basketball state title.

Swan, a 5' 9" senior, leads the team in scoring and assists, and holds the all-time points record at Storybrooke High School with over 2,000 points. She is averaging just over seventeen points a game and has received a good deal of out of state attention for her backcourt leadership. She currently has offers from Fresno State and Portland State (Oregon) to play at the collegiate level, as well as from the University of Maine.

** Swan Picks Portland**

**Storybrooke Mirror, May 2002**

STORYBROOKE – With the deadline to determine her destination nearly up, Storybrooke's star point guard has selected to play her collegiate ball at Portland State University. Swan spoke to a small gathering of reporters and well-wishers with her coach, Leo Blanchard, yesterday.

When asked why she chose to go to college so far away, Swan explained, "Some people live and die in Storybrooke, you know? I want to get out, to make a name for myself, to put this place on the map. The first step was winning state; the next step is to take my game as far as it can go."

Swan, an orphan and ward of the state, has spent the better part of her high school career living with her coach, Mr. Blanchard and his daughter. She attributes her success in basketball to the constant immersion of strategy that she receives from being around her coach every day. Mr. Blanchard is a 25 year coaching veteran who also serves on the school board since retiring from teaching civics at Storybrooke High School.

Swan will join a veteran club that plays in the Big Sky Conference and says that she hopes to make an immediate impact on the team.

**Portland 60, Montana 45**

**From Basketball Roundups, USA Today, January 2003**

Freshman Emma Swan (5'9" Storybrooke, ME) scored 17 in just 25 minutes of play in her Big Sky debut against rival Montana. Portland State is currently 5-9 after a grueling preseason that included trips to Georgia, Tennessee and Notre Dame; they are currently the favorite to win the Big Sky.

**Basketball Star Dismissed on Robbery Charges, Hearing Pending**

**Kennebec Journal, September 2003**

PORTLAND, OR – Police filed charges Saturday against local basketball talent Emma Swan, 19, following her arrest Friday evening. Swan, according to police reports, is charged with possession of stolen goods and evading arrest. Portland State has officially dismissed Swan, a rising sophomore, from their basketball team following notification of her arrest.

"We regret that we can no longer welcome Ms. Swan to represent our community and school," The school's official statement read. Further comment was declined.

Swan averaged 10 points and 2.3 assists with 24 minutes of playing time per game her freshman year.

**Swan Song – Storybrooke's Swan Guilty**

**Storybrooke Mirror, January 2004**

PORTLAND, OR – Former Storybrooke High basketball star, Emma Swan, was convicted yesterday in a public hearing of possession of stolen property. She is facing up to five years in prison and will sit a sentencing sometime next week, according to court papers.

Swan, 20, was arrested in September of last year after police found her loitering in a restricted area. Upon a search of her person, an undisclosed number of watches with an estimated value of close to $100,000.00 was found on her person. Swan testified in court that she had simply collected them for a friend and had no idea that they were stolen, but upon cross-examination it came to light that many of Swan's associates in Portland possessed police records and long rap sheets. As this is Ms. Swan's first conviction, there is some expectation of leniency from presiding judge Martha Rogers.

**Swan Released on Good Behavior**

**National Briefs, Storybrooke Mirror, August 2006**

OREGON – Local Basketball hero Emma Swan (22) was released from prison in Oregon yesterday on account of her good behavior and new developments in the case. Swan was sentenced in 2004 to serve five years for possession of stolen property and served one and a half years of her sentence before being released. Police suspect that Swan was telling the truth during her trial when she said that she had no idea that the property she was holding had been stolen, as several similar cases have occurred around the Portland area since her conviction in 2004. Ms. Swan declined to comment to the press upon her release.


	2. Chapter 2

**The Return**

_a fanfic by anamatics_

* * *

**_Chapter One – Homecoming (25 May, 2012)_**

_"It doesn't matter where you are, doesn't matter where you go_

_If it's a million miles away or just a mile up the road_

_Take it in, take it with you when you go_

_Who says you can't go home?"  
-_ Bon Jovi & Jennifer Nettles

Leo doesn't answer when Emma calls him collect from a payphone in Boston and the operator won't let her leave him a message. She slams the receiver down in disgust and stares at it for a long time before turning away and scowling at the rain-slicked bus station parking lot that she'd sprinted across in order to chance this call.

It's not like she has much else to do. The bus to Bangor doesn't leave for another hour and she figures that it's a common courtesy to call before showing up in the town whose name you've disgraced. Maybe she's just hoping for too much, going back there, but she's out of options now. Its home or nothing now, the last of her money is gone, funneled into this bus ticket to Bangor.

Emma runs a tired hand through her two-day dirty hair and scowls up at the sky. The rain pelts down hard and cold droplets of water all around her and she feels as if she's growing more and more desperate by the second. She's got half a mind to try calling Leo again, to tell him that it's Maine or nothing and no matter what she's done to them, it can't be worse than what she's coming from.

Ten years later and she's still running. Emma chews her lip and contemplates the payphone. She's burned all of her bridges at home; she'd done that a long time ago. Now she's just trying to remember if there's anyone in that god-forsaken village that will care if she lives or dies. Names of former friends, teammates, the few people she stayed with who weren't god-awful, swim through Emma's mind and she struggles to remember if any of them even cared the last time she was fucked six ways to Sunday and desperately needed help.

There is one name, but it's far too early in the day for him to be back at port. Emma sighs again, staring up at the rain once more. _Stupid lobstermen and their stupidly rigid schedules._

It always rains in May, but at least in Boston there's some semblance of a spring. Emma hitches her bag further up her shoulder and scowls at the rain. The jacket she's got on isn't that great in the rain, but it's better than nothing. Cheap and fake leather in the most obnoxious shade of red imaginable. She'd found it in Vegas, after they'd let her out on account of her good behavior – when they'd finally figured out that Emma was just a patsy. There had been some restitution money from the state after that, and the chance to look across a courtroom and tell twelve of her peers that Neal Cassidy was a manipulative douche who'd let her fall on the sword for him.

The judge wouldn't expunge the records, and the restitution money soon ran out when it became obvious that no one was going to offer her a job with that history. She had been stuck with the idea of lying about it, which she couldn't stomach, or simply fumbling her way through life, hoping there'd be someone like Leo that she'd chance upon again.

Kicking a rock and sending it skittering across the bus depot's parking lot, Emma shivers. It's fifty five and rainy, and she'd spent the better part of a year in Raleigh couch-surfing with friends and working basketball concessions as no one asked twice in a place like that. It'd had been eighty when she'd left and now she's stuck in a New England not-quite-spring. She's gonna get sick.

Over the loudspeaker, there's an announcement that they're boarding the bus and Emma hurries out into the rain once more, her boots splashing water up her pant legs. She sighs when she looks down at the rainwater-slicked with motor oil that now dots her nice boots and the one pair of jeans she owns that she actually likes. Just another fuck up, she supposes.

Maybe in Portland Leo will answer his phone. Or it'll be late enough that she can try the second option.

Ninety-Five is clogged with traffic and Emma stares out over the harbor with a blank look on her face. As the bus merges at a snail's pace over to Ninety-Three and pointed north towards Concord. She's avoided New England for so long, hated the idea of coming back to a place where people might know her. Now though, she stares at the clouds of fog rolling in off the water and she realizes that she missed the sight and smell of the ocean.

And the bus ride drags on.

In Manchester, Emma debates getting off and trying to call Leo again, but the layover is only twenty minutes and she knows that she'll go and waste what precious little cash she has on her at the McDonald's that's nestled inside the bus station and be hungry again in twenty minutes. She kicks off her boots and curls her legs underneath her, trying to force herself to concentrate on the novel in her lap. It had been free in a bin outside the library in Raleigh and Emma had taken it knowing that it was good and long and would probably take her the entirety of the bus ride to read through it.

"Whatcha reading?" The kid who's been kicking her seat incessantly since they left Boston demands. He's half-hanging over the seat, a Nintendo DS in his hands and Mario half-heartedly paused in mid jump away from Bowser's flames. It looks like Mario's about to die. Emma feels for the kid, towards the end of those games, Bowser could be a bitch. Emma doesn't have the heart to glare at him, and just shrugs and flips the cover for him to see.

"Mu-Tin-a-y on the Bounty," the kid sounds out slowly. Emma thinks that he's a little old to still need to sound out words, especially now that she's back in New England where there are actually decent public schools.

Emma's eyes narrow, video games are ruining children to this day, it seems. "Mutiny," she corrects.

"What's it about?" The kid's already absorbed in his game again, but he's obviously expecting Emma to entertain him as the buss rolls forward and on towards Concord.

"Sailors who didn't like their captain," Emma explains, guilt flooding over her as struggled to force down the memories of the adoration of her teammates when she'd been captain. Once, she'd been a leader. Now she's just fallen from grace and as the mills of Manchester sped by out the window, Emma worries on her lip and wonders if going back there is even the right thing to do.

She is returning home, defeated.

And Leo still won't answer his phone.

They stop in Bow before going up the road to Concord to get gas for the bus and pick up even more passengers. Emma doesn't really understand why there are two stops so close together, but she stares out the window as the Mobil station and hotels that dot the juncture of eighty nine and ninety five give way to residential homes and the sort of look that she's always taken for granted in New England.

New Hampshire has always been something of a mystery to Emma. It boarders all of Maine and yet the people here, Emma reasons, would be more at home in Alabama than in Maine or Vermont or even Massachusetts. It's a start to her, though, as the bus winds its way up route thirteen towards Concord. She doesn't understand why this place is so different from the rest of New England.

In Concord, Emma watches as a beat-up Chevy with a stars and bars sticker on its back window drive down the street across from the bus station with raised eyebrows and says nothing as the bus starts to slowly empty. There's a long way to go until Portland, and then it's on to Bangor. More people will probably get on in Portland, she figures, the bus route ends in Canada.

She sits back and continues to read about breadfruit and the increasingly harsh conditions on the ship, her mind drifting as the rain continues to fall outside. She falls asleep with her finger tucked into the book to mark her place, her hair falling into her eyes and her breathing finally even for what is probably the first time in this entire trip.

Emma dreams vividly. She always has.

She's standing in the house where she lived when she was three, just barely old enough to remember the feelings of betrayal as the man she'd thought to be her father and his tired wife drive her and their newborn son up to the social services office in Bangor. She had been so angry, even as a child, at that family that had loved her so strongly up until the point where she no longer served a purpose. They had a child all their own, and Emma no longer had any value in their lives.

They'd thrown her away like trash and the emergency placement at ten o'clock on a Friday night just before Memorial Day had been every bit as bad.

Emma remembers the house, the stale smell of it and the oppressive weight of the air around her as she moves from room to room. She's careless, a child, and her little body trips on a rug and knocks a vase loose from its shelf. It crashes down around Emma, so like and yet unlike the rest of her life.

And Emma runs, skittering to a halt at the stairway, debating going up or down. Fear is everywhere in this memory – in this dream. And she's afraid to move.

At the base of the stairs is an older girl with dark hair in a braid down her back. She smiles and her warm brown eyes crinkle at the corners when she looks at Emma. Emma reaches out, desperate to get away. The girl looks away when the hand on the small of Emma's back strikes hard enough to bruise.

She'd broken a vase, running indoors, and her foster sister would do nothing to stop her mother's wrath.

"-land," a voice crackles through the haze of dream and memory and Emma jerks awake. She blinks, surprised to see that they've pulled into Portland just as the growing, rainy dusk has settled more firmly into night. "Portland, everyone out. Those traveling on to Bangor or Eastport can re-board in twenty minutes."

There is a line of payphones across the street and Emma heaves her bag over her shoulder once more. It cuts into the skin there through her jacket and sweater beneath it and she winces. She hasn't had a dream about that place in months now, and as she inches ever closer to where it all began, she's not sure she wants to keep going. Portland's as good a place to start over as any.

Leo doesn't pick up when she calls, but this operator allows her to leave a message, free of charge. Emma doesn't really know what to say, and swallows desperately against her dry mouth, desperate for the words to tumble forth and out into the world. "Coach," she says, and her tongue feels thick and heavy as she talks. "It's Emma Swan. Look, I… I don't really know where else to go any more. I'm on a bus headed home. I'm going to need a place to say." The words stretch out into silence and the answering machine clicks off into silence. Leo isn't going to do her any favors, Emma knows this now.

"Can I try one more number?" she asks the operator after hanging up and dialing zero one more time.

"No messages this time," The operator says, and then Emma gives her the name of the only other person in all of her god-forsaken hometown that might still give a damn about her.

She stands in the rain in Portland, squinting across the street at the bus station, making sure that the bus won't leave before she's on it as she listens to the phone ring. After the tone pulses twice, she finds herself smiling as a harassed-sounding Killian Jones tells the operator that he'll accept the charges.

"Hey Killian," Emma says when the operator clicks off. She doesn't really know how ask him for what she wants to ask.

"Swan," His tone is curt, but not without warmth. Even over the phone, Emma can tell that he's smiling, just a little bit. "What has got you calling me from Portland of all far-too-close-for-comfort places?"

Sighing, Emma nervously wraps a strand of hair around her finger, watching is it's straw-yellow shape curls and then falls flat and limp once more. She needs a shower and a decent night's rest. "I'm coming there," she glances at the bus station once more. They're starting to line up, but she thinks that it's the bus for Boston. "I want to try and start over."

"Then why are you coming _here?"_ Killian demands and Emma doesn't think that there is an answer for that. It's seven-thirty on a Thursday – right before a holiday weekend. The roads are clogged with early vacationers headed to and from their homes and destinations. She just wants to stop, to rest. She wants, and the thought terrifies her beyond all measure, to go home. "Dunno if you've been keeping up, but this place is dead nine months out of the year, love."

"I know," she replies, cradling the phone between her hands. "I'm getting in at nine; can I crash at yours for the night?"

"Is one night going to turn into many?" he asks mildly and Emma rolls her eyes.

"I'm calling you because you were a friend, Killian. A really good friend, once upon a time. I've already tried Leo… but he won't pick up and I don't dare call Mary Margaret, not after what happened," Emma isn't above asking for help, but she is above begging. She'll find a place to stay even if it isn't with Killian, and they both know that.

He chuckles. "Nice to know I'm still playing second best to Leo Blanchard." Emma can feel the sarcasm dripping through the phone and rolls her eyes even though he cannot see her. "I'll be there. You can still mend traps right?"

"And man the boat if you need me too," Emma replies and hangs up, listening to the sounds of the city streets. Portland is a nice city, and Emma's lived in many of them. At seventeen, Portland had seemed like the greatest city in the world, and then she'd traveled across the country to the other Portland and had found everything that she'd never wanted in a city that had represented her freedom – her escape – for so long.

Boarding the bus once more, Emma tries not to think about what might be waiting for her when she returns to Storybrooke. She goes back to breadfruit and Tahiti and shit getting real on the Bounty and tries not to think about anything at all.

She left Maine on a day like this in May, ten years ago. It had been raining when Leo and his daughter had driven her to Portland with only one suitcase and a new pair of Jordans in Storybrooke High's colors. She'd stared down at their black, white and deep purple the whole drive, a swell of gratitude welling up within her.

Leo had smiled at her then, and had hugged her at the airport. Emma had never had a father, but she figures that Leo is the closest she's ever had. All she can think about, despite the book and the same beat-up pair of Jordans jammed into the top of her bag, is how she let him down. He'd done so much to get her out – and she'd thrown it all away for the first guy who'd told her she was beautiful.

Emma pushes all thoughts of _that_ from her mind, and watches out the window as the rainy city gives way to the thick pine forests of northern coastal Maine.

Killian's beat up old Isuzu pickup is still running, apparently. It's the same car he had in high school, bought off of his father before he'd left the town to go further south and attempt to start a carpentry business. Emma remembers driving out of town to go camping in New Hampshire with him and how it had rained so hard that they'd set up a tarp over the truck bed and slept there, drinking stolen Bud Light and singing along to the Green Day on the radio.

Emma is the only one to get off in Storybrooke and she doesn't thank then driver when she departs. Her heart is thudding in her chest and she's suddenly very grateful that Storybrooke is such a small tow. No one save Killian, leaning against the hood of his truck, is there to see her arrive. No one has to know just yet. Emma likes that. She likes the feeling of anonymity. This is just another place that she's come to, like any of the places before that. This isn't a place where she's had endings or beginnings. If she lies to herself hard enough, she can almost believe that she has a blank slate.

The bus roars off down Main Street, pausing at the single stoplight before disappearing into the inky night. Emma inhales the smell of the salt air and steps towards Killian, hand raised in greeting.

He raises one in return, but it's the sudden sight of the other that has Emma hissing, "_Jesus_, what the fuck happened to your hand?"

"Stuck in a pot that Billy was throwing overboard," Killian says, glancing down at the prostatic hook that forms his left hand. Emma's eyes widen as he shrugs nonchalantly and pulls her into a tight hug. "I nearly drowned."

"Shit man," Emma says and kisses him on the cheek. Once she'd thought that they'd be lovers, but that had been a long time ago. Killian had been an odd kid when they were in school, and Emma always figured that he'd be an odd adult too. Now he's just a face from her past and Emma's not entirely sure she knows what to say to him. It's been a very long time since she's felt this awkward. She shifts from foot to foot, looking at Killian's black leather jacket and ratty Sox t-shirt beneath it. He's got on black jeans that have seen better days and looks a lot more like the bad boy from a boy band than a lobsterman with only one hand.

"I renamed the boat," he says, stepping back and grinning at her.

"Did you now?" She asks with a raised eyebrow. When they'd been kids, the boat had been named for his mother. "To what? The _Black Pearl_?"

"Well, given that Billy's last name is Smee, I went with the _Jolly Roger_," he nearly pouts as Emma throws back her head and laughs and laughs. Of course he did.

"You got a sick sense of humor, Jones," she says, clapping him on the shoulder and grinning at him. She raises an eyebrow and adds, a smirk playing at her lips, "Or should I say, Captain Hook?"

His eyes glitter dangerously in the light of the streetlamp above them. "Speaking of _children's_," he glares at Emma, "films, get in. I have to drop something off for a friend."

Still chuckling, Emma throws her bag into the back of Killian's truck. It smells like fish and the ocean and she winkles her nose and adjusts the bag so that it isn't touching the collection of rain and seawater-wet leaves that Killian appears to be unaware of. She hops into the cab and Killian's already fiddling with the radio. He produces a cassette from above his sun visor and pops it into the tape player. When the opening cords of _Blue Highway_ fill the cab Emma can't help but smile. Ten years later and Killian's taste in music is pretty much the same. Somehow, she's not really all that surprised.

Killian drives up Main and turns left on Park and Emma finds herself peering around at the brightly-lit windows of the town as Killian drives slowly through town. There's a brown paper bag on the seat beside him that moves occasionally and Emma knows that there's at least one lobster in it. She's tempted to open it up and have a look, curious if the sea coruscations have changed at all. The town's pretty much the same, Emma still holds her breath as they drive by the church graveyard and very pointedly doesn't look at Leo's house as they pass it heading up the hill that overlooks the town and onto Mifflin Street.

She still remembers this street and the time she spent briefly living on it when she was barely old enough to remember. It isn't really all that different, and Emma's about to disregard the street when Killian pulls up to the one house that Emma has no interest in ever entering again.

It dwarfs all of the other structures on the street in size and prominence, the largest house on the block that belongs to the senator's wife who's taken over his job after he had a heart attack some five years ago now. Emma had been surprised, sitting in St. Paul, to open the newspaper and read about the sudden and rather traumatic death of a Maine senator who'd head a massive coronary on his way back to his home state.

Emma shakes her head, for her involvement with that family had been a lifetime ago, it _had_ to be another family living here now. Leaning forward, Emma reached for the crank handle to lower the truck's window, desperate to get rid of some of the smell of fish and sweaty man that seemed to cling to the trucks' interior. "Be just a sec," Killian says, taking the brown paper bag and stepping out of the cab. He slams the door shut and lets himself into the gated yard.

From the doorway, a small figure shoots across the lawn. Emma can see that the little boy is wearing his pajamas and is barefoot as Killian scoops him up with his good hand. "I have a present for you," he explains after spinning the kid around for a second and Emma thinks that it's the strangest thing. Killian isn't supposed to be good with kids. He's supposed to be her weird friend from high school who used to wear eyeliner and listen to ICP too much.

Being an adult isn't a good look on him. On either of them really.

"This little guy wasn't going to make it if we put 'im back," Killian explains. He deftly opens the bag with his hook and reaches in to pull out a small white bundle. "So I thought that you could look after him in your tank?"

The little boy nods solemnly and takes the small – it's not a lobster - Emma leans forward and catches the stark white of a shell. It's a hermit crab, gotta be. "Did you ask my mom?" the kid asks and Killian grins in response.

"I'm sure that your mother will understand doing a good deed," Killian winks and pushes himself back to his feet. The little boy turns with carefully cupped hands and makes his way back to the door. That's when Emma first catches a glimpse of the boy's mother, standing in the doorway and dressed to the nines. She doesn't look particularly familiar to Emma and a wave of relief floats easily over Emma. If she doesn't have to deal with _that_ family while she's sorting her shit out, it'll be a blessing.

Emma glances up through her curtain of hair and catches the woman's face as she steps under the porch light. She's _gorgeous_.

She's Regina Mills and she's aged fucking beautifully.

Emma slumps down in the seat as Killian climbs back into the cab. "Not hiding, are you?" he asks with a raised eyebrow. He moves the gear shift and pulls the truck back onto the road proper. He peers over his shoulder at the house that they've just left and shrugs. "Pretty sure that she doesn't bite."

Groaning, Emma shakes her head and forces her attention back out the window again. She watches the familiar houses as they pass them, running through the multitude of names that she has never been that good recalling at to begin with, trying to remember who lived where. People never left Storybrooke. Emma had been desperate to leave, and now she's sitting in Killian's truck like she's a junior in high school. This place as a terrible pull.

"I take it that she married Dan then?"

Killian nods and turns down Harbor Way, heading towards the house his father had built before either of them were born. Its Killian's now, like the boat and the fishing business. His father had never made it the carpentry business and had ate his gun not long after Emma had left for Oregon. Emma hates to think about that phone call, Mary Margaret begging her to come back, to console Killian.

Emma'd started against Montana that night and Mary Margaret hadn't called again.

"Lost him too," Killian says as he turns into his driveway. Lobster pots and buoys litter his front porch and Emma collects her things from the back of the truck without a word. She brushes off the wet leaves and slings the bag over her shoulder. "He drowned; they were out on a sailboat – the whole family was there, even the Senator – and got caught in a squall. It took the Coast Guard three hours to find him." Killian shook his head and kicked a damaged pot out of the way as he crossed to his front door. It skittered to a halt against a four-high stack of them, wobbling precariously against the railing that wrapped around Killian's porch. He turned to Emma after he'd unlocked the door, hand still resting on the handle, "There's a lot of talk in town - that it wasn't really an accident, and you know better than most how Regina's mother is."

And Emma did know, she'd felt that wrath and she knew Regina had felt it too. It had been a secret that Emma had intended to take to her grave, and she'd made sure that her CPS records had been sealed once she'd aged out of the system. No one had to know the secrets of the Mills family, even if Emma was far too young at the time to know many of them at all. Still, she'd felt the sting and had endured the bruises until a more permanent solution could be found. She'd done it because it meant that Regina, all of seven years old at the time, would smile at her. She'd smile and just for that instant, the pain would leave her eyes.

"What do you think?" Emma asks as she follows Killian inside. The house is largely unchained. The wide stone fireplace still dominates living room, but Emma can see that Killian's decorated the mantle with various things he's found over the years. The antique glass Asian buoys that Emma remembers helping him untangle from a truly frightening-looking piece of seaweed when they were six are still there, but now there's a few old-looking bottles and some interesting driftwood.

"I haven't really ever thought about it," Killian shrugs. "But you'd best get to bed if you're going to be helping out for a while on the boat in the morning." He gestures vaguely towards the couch and yawns. "We can fix the pots tomorrow night."

He disappears into his bedroom and comes out a minute later with a pillow and a blanket that Emma gratefully takes. She's okay with a couch; it's better than sitting on an uncomfortable bus seat for damn near two full days. She's exhausted and world weary on top of it.

It hasn't really sunk in that she's back yet, and Emma wonders if she'll dare stay enough to have it sink in.

_"Won't you come see me_

_In the summer?_

_Bright warm light_

_Late in the evening_

_Come quickly_

_Don't waste time"_

- Poor Moon


	3. Chapter 3

**The Return**

_a fanfic by anamatics_

* * *

**Chapter Two - Summer (17 June, 2012)**

_"If only I could work things out from the start._

_Apologies_

_Return to you._

_Know what matters,_

_heart._"

-Fossil Collective

Emma falls into routines easily. She supposes that her childhood has created this need for things to stay regimented in her. So often her life is in flux that it is the simple act of Killian dumping rain gear on her at four thirty in the morning is the routine that she's latched onto. She stumbles into the kitchen and makes coffee as Killian scowls out at the night sky. He'll determine if they should wear the rain gear out after a few minutes of standing on his porch in the freezing Maine night air in his underwear before he turns around and drains two cups of the coffee that Emma's made black and in less than five minutes.

They drive down to the docks to meet Billy after Killian opens the fridge and stares blearily at it for a few minutes before announcing that they're getting take-away sandwiches for lunch. Billy's a few years older than Emma, and he and Killian have always been close. He's usually got more coffee and the sandwiches that Killian has decided that they'll have for lunch. Emma's always liked Billy because he never judges. He's got a nervous personality that makes her wary, but he's never once commented that she's back in the one place that no one ever thought she'd return to.

When she was seven, Emma had been living with Killian and his father for a spell while Social Services attempted to work out a placement for her within the city. The Mills family obviously wasn't an option, and there didn't seem to be many other places for her to go. Killian's father, despite his flaws, had been a good man. He had done the paperwork before Emma had even screwed up her courage enough to ask.

He taught her how to fish and how to fix lobster traps. She could sew canvas and weave a net by hand if she had to. It came in handy as Killian had never learned and had no money to repair the holes in his traps using anything but the least expensive materials he could buy at the Home Depot in Bangor.

Emma tells herself that she's earning her keep, but she likes it. There's no one to judge when she's hanging off the side of a boat, trying to hook a buoy with one hand, the other desperately flung out to keep her balance. She's always been good at balance drills, she excelled at off-balance shots when she'd played ball. Now she's just hauling in traps and throwing the small ones back, keeping half an eye out for more hermit crabs for Killian's little friend.

It's late in the evening when they return, hungry, exhausted, and desperate for a shower. Emma will usually let Killian go first, puttering around the kitchen and figuring out what to cook for dinner.

Cooking comes naturally to her. She's worked a good bit in kitchens as she's traveled across the country, it seems that most back of house employees have records of one sort of another. Emma hates that the record still sticks with her, even though the circumstances had been so convoluted and stupid. She's two years removed from having to report it on job applications - maybe by then she'll have her shit together enough to know what she wants out of life.

They're out of milk, though. Emma stands in front of the refrigerator in an old t-shirt that she thinks might have belonged to her freshman roommate at Portland State and gym shorts, contemplating the dismal lack of food contained within. Scowling, she pushes the door closed and crosses to the bathroom door. "I'm going to get some groceries."

The sounds of water splashing within stop and Killian shouts back, "What?"

Puffing out her cheeks in exasperation, Emma reaches for the door handle, thinks better of it, and raises the volume of her voice. "We have nothing to eat. I'm taking the truck and going to the store."

The water starts up again and Killian's reply is nearly lost splashes echo through the thin walls. "Go ahead, get me some apples."

Rolling her eyes, Emma retreats into Killian's room and fishes his truck keys out of his work pants that he's left in a heap on the bedroom floor. She takes them and hesitates for a minute before turning away from his wallet. She's earned enough cash during the three weeks that she's done this now that she can afford to buy groceries.

The truck, p.o.s. that it is, starts on the first try and Emma can't help but think that this is the first time she's driven in nearly a year. The last had been in Knoxville, helping drive some drunk college students home for ten bucks and a couch to crash on for the night after a football game. It had been strange to be back on Tennessee's campus, given that the last time she'd been she'd gotten her ass handed to her on the court by a gargantuan guard who had to have had at least six inches and thirty pounds on her. And was playing shooting guard. At the time, Emma had been very caught up in the injustice of it all.

Now though, she's plagued with a different sort of injustice. She doesn't know what's she's doing, walking into a grocery store that's sure to be full of people who hate and resent what she's done to the town's name. No amount of pointing out that she was released; that it was part of a bigger conspiracy and she just took a fall seems to work, really.

Even Killian and Billy, though they avoid the topic like the plague, both have mentioned that her name is no better than Sam Mud's these days.

Emma reasons that she has money and its legal tender. They're not going to turn her away from buying groceries.

Memories in a small town are long.

She swings the truck into a parking spot next to a very nice older Mercedes, making sure to leave enough room so that no one's door gets dinged.

There's a chain store just up the road, maybe ten miles away, but for as long as Emma cares to remember, everyone in town has come to Sprat and Co. instead. They're a local company, owned by a man named Jack and his wife. Emma remembers saving up the dimes and nickels she'd found on her runs as a teenager for the dollar soft serve that they have in the back corner of the store. It would sometimes take a week or more to save up enough, but she took her time and savored the treat like the rarity that it was.

It's easy to move through the store. They haven't moved anything around since Emma was a kid and that Nor'easter and the not-hurricane had collided into the Perfect Storm and the store had been flooded when the tide had washed right over the bulkheads and into town proper. Emma remembers how outraged everyone in town had been that they hadn't named that storm into the final hurricane of the year. It had been too late, they'd said, but the people here knew better. It had taken the better part of two years for the town to return to normal.

She's contemplating angel hair over regular spaghetti when she catches sight a small boy with brown hair wearing a bright red t-shirt pushing a cart as his mother walks beside it. Emma swallows, reaching out with a shaking hand to pick up the box of pasta and put it into her basket. They're walking right behind her now and she feels woefully underdressed and smelly, given how she's been out on the water all day. She probably has lobster gunk in her hair, or maybe seaweed.

The little boy is walking on his tip toes as he pushes the cart, and now that he's closer, Emma can see the all-too-familiar emblem of her former coach's summer basketball camp printed in white across the shirt. The red, if Emma remembers correctly, means that he's still in elementary school.

Regina Mills pauses and Emma shuffles out of the way, trying not to draw attention to herself. She's dressed to the nines and those heels look to be designer as Emma squats down to select a jar of cheap, off-brand pasta sauce. She's got it nearly into her basket and is moving to stand once more when the kid wrinkles his nose and stares at her beat-up old Jordans.

"Your kicks are old," he announces, half-hanging off the cart handles with his own pair of LeBrons looking like he's just bought them.

Emma picks up her basket and stands, grinning at him despite her fear of what his mother will say to her. "They do their job," she says, and smiles as pleasantly as she can make herself with her stomach twisted up in knots as she turns to his mother. "Leo doesn't like it when kids wear their shoes outside - says that the dirt and stuff from outside messes up the gym floor."

"I'm sure that you of all people are not in a position to comment on what that old man says or does not say," There's a dismissal in that tone and Emma just shrugs and turns, taking her basket and heading towards the front of the store. She grabs a bag of apples and moves through the motions of the checkout, paying for food with the money she's earned and feeling really good about it for the first time in a long time.

She's out in the parking lot and loading her bags into the passenger's seat when someone taps her on the shoulder. Emma slams the door shut and turns, fully ready to give that woman a piece of her mind for being so exceptionally bitchy. The words die in her throat when she sees who it is, and her stomach feels like it's dropped to somewhere around her knees.

"Hey," she says quietly, almost shyly.

Mary Margaret Blanchard stares back at her with disbelief evident in her green eyes for a long moment before she launches herself at Emma. She doesn't seem to care that Emma probably still has seaweed or maybe even lobster goop in her hair.

Emma doesn't make friends easily. She never has. Friendship doesn't come naturally to kids who have never had a permanent fixture in their lives. Emma has a baby blanket and a stuffed bear, those are the only two pieces of her life that have remained the same, no matter where she's gone.

It had always come so easily with Mary Margaret. She's younger than Emma by about four years, and by the looks of it just out of college and back in this godforsaken place. Emma had tossed away that friendship like so many others, out the window on her way to the airport that would take her from one Portland to another.

And yet she's hugging Emma as though she's the only thing keeping her grounded.

"You came back," Mary Margaret says almost breathlessly. She's cut her hair stylishly short, and still dresses like she's fallen out of some hipster catalogue somewhere. She's all in white and lace and looks like a fairy tale princess and not the little fourteen year old that she'd left behind ten years before. "Oh Emma."

This time the hug comes easier to Emma. With Killian it's easy to avoid. She can scowl and point out that he has a weapon of maiming for a hand and he'll wink lewdly at her and ask if she wants to know what else it can do. Emma thinks that she's pretty good on that front, but she'll still roll her eyes and act horrified. It's almost like it was before.

The almost is what's kept her from town until now. It's kept her down Harbor Way and out in the boat with the lobsters and the seals that pop their little whiskered faces up out of the bay and watch with doleful, curious eyes as they move from pot to pot, checking the day's catch. It's easier there; there are no expectations except to not fall into the water.

"Mary Margaret," Emma says, and hugs her tightly. She's gross and she doesn't care. This girl who is now a woman was the closest thing she'd ever had to a sister. She's grown up and Emma's missed it all and she almost hates herself for staying away as long as she has.

No one ever leaves, and if they leave, they come back. It's like every other fishing town, every other mill town. A vicious circle of hell that no one can escape. The pull of the small town.

"As tender as I'm sure this reunion is; you are blocking access to my car." It's the cool, clipped tone that makes Emma back away slowly from Mary Margaret, guilt flooding across her face as she complies without question. She's not sure if it's the tone or the delivery or both, but Emma can't help but think that Regina sounds so much like someone who is (thankfully) far away from here, pretending to be an upstanding citizen. "Miss Blanchard," She's got an armful of groceries and a child in tow, but she looks every bit the woman her mother raised to be. Emma really isn't sure what to make of her, if she's truly honest, and stares openly, struck by how sad she seems, and yet how hauntingly beautiful. Emma's about to open her mouth to reply when Regina's nose wrinkles and she adds with a note of distaste, "Miss Swan."

"Sorry, Madam Mayor," Mary Margaret says and shuffles away and out of the space between the two cars. Emma follows her with disbelief clearly written across her face. She'd never thought that Regina would follow her parents into politics. Sure, it had been the assumption that the daughter of a senator and an absolute witch of a debutante would do something with her life, but from what Emma recalled of Regina from the summers she'd returned to town from whichever Seven Sisters school she'd gone to (Holyoke? Or maybe Vassar? Emma really couldn't remember.) that she'd been more interested in Dan and their future life together.

The little boy and his too-expensive shoes is clutching a gallon of milk to his chest and Emma's about to smile at him but Mary Margaret speaks first. "You're Henry, right?" she asks with that same kind smile that Emma's seen in her throughout their many years of knowing each other.

Mary Margaret has grown up, and somehow Emma's missed it.

He nods with solemn eyes and Emma's eyebrows shoot up. She isn't sure why, but she would have though Regina would have named her child after him. She stands awkwardly as the little boy - Henry - scrutinizes Mary Margaret. "You're Ms. Blanchard, I'm in your class next year."

She flashes him a smile that reminds Emma painfully of her father and nods decisively. "Yup, I got the class lists yesterday in the mail."

Henry hikes up the milk jug, holding it more comfortably in one hand and holds out his hand, condensation from the jug staining his red shirt maroon. "It's nice to meet you," he says, the picture of politeness.

Mary Margaret shakes his hand with a small and private smile on her face. Emma jams her hands into her shorts pockets and stares off into the distance. She can almost see the ocean if she looks just right. She doesn't know why she feels awkward now. This is normal, a normal part of life here. Everyone is connected; everyone is caught up in everyone else's business. There's no expectation of privacy in a place like this.

"Henry," comes Regina's voice from the rolled down Mercedes window. "We have to go home now."

He smiles brightly at both of them and then scampers off to the passenger's seat, calling goodbye over his shoulder. Emma almost smiles as she watches him strap himself into a booster seat under his mother's watchful gaze. Regina shifts the car into reverse and pulls out of the space expertly, not even bothering to spare either of them a glance as she drives off.

"Bitch," Mary Margaret mutters under her breath and Emma turns to her, her mouth half-way open in shock. Her friend has grown up, it seems, even if she still dresses like she's fallen out of some hipster-sixties' wet dream. Emma remembers joking once, when she was sixteen and wearing belly shirts and baggy pants, that Mary Margaret had been born into the wrong decade.

Emma shrugs, the soft cotton of her t-shirt scratching at her ears and a slow smile growing across her face. She doesn't know why it's coming back so easily. She's been out of the loop of Mary Margaret's life for so long now that it almost feels like she's intruding when she tries to figure out what to say next.

"What are you doing for dinner?" she asks at length, as Mary Margaret chews on her lip and stares at the ground. "I'm staying at Killian's."

"I had gathered," Mary Margaret looks up then, a wry smile playing at her lips. She jerks her head to the truck. "You were always going off with him in this thing, back then too." She hesitates and then asks, "You aren't sleeping with him, are you?"

Shaking her head violently, Emma lets out a bark of laughter that feels good after being glared at by miss high-and-mighty who is apparently the mayor of this shithole. "Nah, just the couch. Which is awful and smells like beer and piss."

"Well you smell like lobster boat, so there is that," Mary Margaret points out. "And I don't have any plans for dinner."

"Did you drive?" Emma asks, moving towards the cab once more and shoving the groceries towards the middle of the bench seat.

"Walked." Mary Margaret returns her earlier shrug.

"Get in then," Emma says, "I'll cook."

"This I gotta see." There's a wicked glint in Mary Margaret's eyes as she scrambles into the passenger side of the truck and pokes through Emma's grocery bags with curious eyes. Emma wants to point out that ten years is plenty long to acquire a hobby, thank you very much, but the words of retort die on her lips as Mary Margaret smiles at her, warm and true.

Maybe this is the feeling that she's been missing.

Killian is (thankfully) dressed when they get back and seems genuinely happy to see Mary Margaret. Emma leaves them to their strange local beer that Killian produces from the refrigerator and takes a quick shower. Dinner comes easily after that, conversation and food prep seguing beautifully into Killian doing the dishes and Emma and Mary Margaret sitting out on the porch, watching the fireflies dance over the harbor.

Emma has pulled one of the more busted traps that Killian's been avoiding fixing towards herself and is inspecting the damage. It looks like something chewed its way through the netting, which is a little bizarre. She turns it this way and that, not really sure what she's supposed to say now.

"My dad wanted to go to your parole hearing," Mary Margaret offers, sipping on her beer and staring out over the harbor. She's not looking at Emma now, and Emma's grateful. She can't imagine what her face looks like right now. "I talked him out of it."

Emma's hand falters. "Why?"

She's not sure that she wants to know the reason, but the curiosity burns within her. She reaches for the scissors that are set on the window next to her beer. She's sitting on an overturned fruit crate like its some high society throne while Mary Margaret leans against the porch's support pillar.

She measures out two arm lengths of wax-coated nylon and waits, fingers twisting the frayed edge of the twine, slowly unraveling it.

"When the news broke here that you were going to be released due to new evidence in your case, everyone didn't know what to make of it. My dad especially," Mary Margaret shrugs. "I know you though, and we looked up the details of what-his-face..."

"Neal," Emma growls with more malice than she thought herself capable of. Mary Margaret starts and stares, Emma's knuckles are white as she grips the twine, half-way into a knot. "Neal fucking Cassidy, may he rot in jail for the rest of his unfortunate life." She doesn't say that she wishes she could kill him twice over, just for what he'd taken from her.

Her future is gone, snuffed out in an instant. She had been unwitting, but an accomplice none the less. Emma hated that she could not escape the conviction, no matter how innocent her intentions had been. The watches were still stolen, and she was not the first girl Neal had duped into taking the fall for him.

Emma ties the knot off and looks up at Mary Margaret. "You should have let him come. It..." she looks away, frizzing bangs falling into her eyes. "It would have been nice to see someone I knew there."

No one had been there. It had been two women and a man asking her if she'd learned her lesson and if she was ready to be a useful member of society. She'd answered as truthfully as she could, and the state had cut her a check for her trouble and the loss of her career, but would not strike the conviction from her record.

It was - still is really - a fucked up situation.

Mary Margaret turns her attention back to the harbor and the dancing fireflies. She doesn't speak for a long time, sipping on her beer as Emma re-weaves the busted net on the lobster pot. There's nothing to say, Emma's said her piece and Mary Margaret's explained her view.

She used to think that Sundays were the easy days. Nothing ever happens on Sundays.

Now she knows better, and is grateful when Killian comes out, towel still over his shoulder. He stands with his hands on his hips and tells them that he's going to attempt to make cookies, if they'd like to supervise.

It breaks the ice, really, and soon Emma and Mary Margaret are laughing together again, maybe not able to forget, but starting to forgive.

It is much later when Emma drives Mary Margaret back to her dad's place. She's got a lease starting in August, but she's apparently staying with her dad until the apartment is ready to go. "Actually," Mary Margaret had said, pasta expertly twirled around her fork, "I'm probably going to need a roommate."

Emma had told her that she'd think about it. Now though, as she drops Mary Margaret off outside her father's house, she can't help but want to tell her no. She doesn't want to be here that long, no matter how easy it is to fall back into the pattern of this place.

The people here understand, and yet don't understand. Emma doesn't think that she will ever truly understand or fully comprehend how utterly her involvement with that man had destroyed her life.

It's then that she looks up from where she's studying the nicks in the leather of the steering wheel cover that Killian's had since forever. Leo Blanchard is standing on the porch, staring at her with a sad looking smile on his face. Emma reaches forward and slowly cranks down the window to hear him call her name.

"Swan!" He shouts, his voice sounding far older than Emma ever remembered it sounding. "Can you still play?"

The question isn't one that has ever been an issue. Emma's always been able to ball. She might be a little rusty, but the mechanics of it are like a bicycle. She doesn't think she'll ever forget sitting around as a kid watching Jordan do layup after layup until she fully understood the mechanics of it.

"Yes coach," she calls back.

"Camp starts after the fourth. I expect you there to assist," He scratches at his grey beard and Emma can tell he's smiling. Leo's always been a good guy, and Emma's eternally grateful for all he's done in her life. "One fifty a week, you can still gallivant with your lobster boy in the mornings."

Emma reaches forward and starts the engine. "I'll be there coach."

_"You were standing this close to me_  
_Like the future was supposed to be_  
_In the aisles of the grocery_  
_And the blocks up-town"_

- Vampire Weekend


	4. Chapter 4

**The Return**

_a fanfic by anamatics_

* * *

**Chapter Three – Camp (4-11 July, 2012)**

_"With your heart like a stone you spared no time in lashing out  
And I knew your pain and the effect of my shame  
But you cut me down, you cut me down."  
_- Mumford & Sons

They spend the fourth in the boat, drinking the High Life and shooting off (locally) illegal fireworks that Billy's produced from the trunk of his car. Emma brings Mary Margaret along, and with her come her friends that Emma scarcely remembers from before. They've all grown up, these days. Ruby, who'd always been quiet and reserved as a kid, has grown into a girl who obviously is far more comfortably in her sexuality than Emma herself is. Ashley has a child and is married at twenty four and it's really bizarre. Emma thinks of her as the round-cheeked kid who liked to play dress-ups with Mary Margaret when they were in seventh grade and Emma snuck them into high school's theatre costume room.

Killian probably is too drunk to be driving a boat around with all the unseen underwater obstacles that dot the water outside of Storybrooke's tiny cove and harbor. Emma doesn't stop him though, because she has no clue where any of the rocks are anymore. They talk and laugh and Emma dives into the water on a dare. It's freezing and she comes up shivering and covered in goosebumps, but it feels good.

She drives down once more, pushing herself into the deep and the gently swaying seaweed. She's looking for something that she's not sure she'll find without a mask and snorkel. Still, there it is, clinging to a rock. The salt water stings her eyes as Emma reaches forward and pulls the tiny star fish from its spot on the rock and clutches it close to her chest as she kicks her way back to the surface.

"Thought you'd gotten stuck under the boat," Killian comments as Emma hauls herself up and out of the water and pads, dripping wet, over to Mary Margaret.

"Do you remember these?" she asks, pressing the starfish into Mary Margaret's hand. She wrings the water from her hair and onto the Roger's deck and shivers in the bright July sunlight as Mary Margaret cradles the tiny creature cupped in between her two hands.

"You used to fish them out for everyone," Mary Margaret laughs. "And name them."

"That one's Claude," Emma says and everyone laughs as Mary Margaret dangles an empty bait bucket over the side and fills it water for their temporary friend. Claude slowly rights himself and attaches himself to the side of the bucket as the night progresses.

The salt water dries in her hair and she tilts her head back, staring up into the night sky thoughtfully. Maybe she's happy.

Maybe she just doesn't know who she is anymore and this is as good an identity as any.

She tells Mary Margaret that she'll room with her when she, Ashley, Ruby and Mary Margaret make their way back into town to climb the hill and watch the real fireworks display.

"I'd wondered what was holding you back," Mary Margaret confesses with a small and closed-off smile. They're leaning back against the trees atop the hill; Ashley and Ruby are talking a little ways down from them.

As the fireworks erupt above them, Emma realizes that she doesn't really have an answer for that. Not one that she can share with Mary Margaret at any rate. She had hoped that returning to Storybrooke would simply be a stopping point on the way to somewhere else, but with the money from helping Killian out and the promise of a place of her (almost) own come August; she's finding that she almost doesn't want to leave. Memories and her own curiosity has grabbed her and Emma desperately wants to know _more_ about this town and all that has happened since she left.

"I don't know," Emma says and shrugs, shoulders touching still salt-dry hair. She leans in close when Mary Margaret raises her arm and presses a kiss to her friend's cheek. This transgression, at least, is easy to forgive.

The others will be harder.

After the holiday vacationers clear out of town on Monday, Emma finds herself wandering towards the high school at Leo's appointed time. She's got her shoes tied at the lace and slung over her shoulder, and she's scrubbed the bottoms of them clean of dirt and rocks that may scratch the gym floor, socks and a water bottle she's liberated from the _Roger_ tucked inside of them.

The high school is an old brick building that Emma thinks was built in the forties, back when Storybrooke was a prosperous fishing village that doubled as an idyllic vacation destination for all the big city folks from Boston and New York. It's full of asbestos and the auditorium probably should be condemned, but Emma has found that it still holds that pull for her.

Once, Emma used to run this school. She hadn't been the best student, needing tutoring during the summer to ensure that her grades stayed good enough to get her a decent SAT score and a no-worries transcript to send out to potential college coaches. Emma bites her lip, fingers looping through the twisted shoelaces that are cutting into her shoulder. She knows that it's stupid to even entertain the idea, but maybe _that's _why Regina Mills is so snippy with her now. Emma had spent two summers under her tutelage, being brought up to speed on chemistry and then physics – her two worst subjects – by then junior and senior in college Regina Mills.

It doesn't seem like it could possibly be the whole reason, and Emma's got other things to worry about. Leo's old Crown Vic is parked by the gym entrance and he's unloading supplies out of it and into the waiting arms of lanky-looking guy in mesh shorts and a beat-up looking Pats t-short. Emma's brow furrows and she stares hard at him, trying to place his face as Leo slams his trunk closed and slings a second equipment bag over his shoulder.

"Ah, Swan," Leo's face hasn't aged as well as Emma would have thought. As a kid, she'd always thought that he was immune to aging, all black hair and beard. Now though, the beard is more salt and pepper and his beard is more unkempt. His hair has grown out of the Marines buzz that he'd had all throughout Emma's childhood and now curls up and over his ears. His hair and the deep lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth make him look old – far too old for Emma's taste. "Grab the ball rack, you remember Jim right?"

The guy with the sandy blonde hair and the charming smile gives a little half-wave, most of his fingers still wrapped around the bag he's got slung over his shoulder. Emma remembers him now. Jim Frederick, the former quarterback for the football team (back when the school had had enough kids to have a football team) and – if Emma's memory from Mary Margaret's drunken ramblings the other day - the current gym teacher at the elementary school. "Hey Emma," he says and there's a kind tone in his voice that makes Emma feel a whole lot better about doing this. "How've you been?"

Emma reaches for the ball rack and adjusts her shoes to be around her neck and dangling into her arm pits so she can steer the rack better. "Alright," she says and starts to push the rack forward and towards the gym entrance. "Back home for a change."

Jim's head tilts back and he laughs lightly, a smile blossoming across his face. "And here I thought you were one of the lucky ones who got out."

Rolling her eyes, Emma holds the door open for him. "Yeah, out. Only then I got my ass landed in jail," she says and snorts derisively. Jim just laughs and uses his free hand to maneuver the front end of the ball rack over the slight lip on the gym floor to stop the cold and wet from getting into the gym. Emma finds herself smiling at him though, happy that he's still every bit the good guy that she remembers from school. He'd been a year behind her, friends with pretty much everyone.

Leo disappears off into the locker rooms and Emma lingers at the door until he comes out. Jim's disappeared off an equipment room and has returned with a hand drill and the crank that will help them to lower the rest of the baskets. Emma watches him with her arms folded across her chest for a few minutes before she sighs and pushes the door open.

Storybrooke High only has one locker room, and the rules were that girls changed first, boys second, and if it took more than five minutes there would be laps for everyone. Mrs. Harden, the high school gym teacher, was an old battle axe who took no crap from anyone and she made due with the best that she had.

Leo is sitting on one of the long benches, lacing up his sneakers. He looks up when Emma opens the door and then goes back to his shoes. Emma crosses to sit next to him and tries to ignore the incredible feelings of awkwardness that roll over her as she settles down to change out of her flip flops and into her shoes.

It's only when she's got her socks on and is moving to undo the knot in her laces that was keeping her shoes together that Emma realizes that Leo is watching her. She raises an eyebrow and meets his gaze head-on. "What?" she asks. She figures that it's way too early in this rekindling of their friendship for there to be awkward silences like this. Leo is one of the few people that Emma can think of who might actually miss her if she were to die tomorrow.

"You still have the shoes we got you…" There's something in Leo's tone, and the way that his eyes are crinkled into what Emma can't quite see as happiness, but it could be that kindred feeling of contentment that comes fright before it. It's a weird look on him, Emma thinks.

Emma nods and pulls her laces tight. "I don't have much," she confesses. She doesn't want to elaborate that all she owns fits into a single bag. She can't have more, she doesn't want to linger. Even still, while she's been here, she's acquired the next in the series of _Bounty_ books and is working her way through it in her spare time. She likes it, the story of a man who did all that he could to keep his men alive. She likes to think that Killian might be like William Bligh, but she knows that he's not nearly that much of an asshole.

Still, he's the closest thing that she's ever had to a brother, let alone a person who cares enough about her to drop everything and come out into the dark to pick her up. Emma doesn't make friends well. Trust issues, the therapists when she was a child, and then again in prison, had said. She's still smarting from the parents who abandoned her on the side of the highway coming into town, and she doesn't think that she'll ever understand why they did what they did.

Finishing the knot, Emma raises her gaze to meet Leo's once more. She can see that he's got that unnerving, almost _touched_ look in his eyes. The look makes Emma uncomfortable, for she knows that she does not deserve such affection from anyone, let alone this great man. "And these have lasted a long time," she finishes, feeling stupid and tongue tied. They're ten-year-old Air Jordans, not exactly the nicest shoes in the world.

"I'm glad you kept them," Leo says in reply, and presses his hands into his knees, rising to his feet in a far wearier motion than Emma would have ever expected of him. Her cheeks burn in shame, for she knows that she must have helped to age this great man.

Leo holds out his hand and Emma takes it, letting him pull her to her feet and taking the hair-tie that he offers without comment. Mary Margaret's hair is short now, so Emma has no idea why he keeps a back of them in his pockets at all times. She puts her hair up and follows him wordlessly; tie dangling from her mouth as she gathers her thick blonde locks into some semblance of a pony tail.

"You had so much potential…" Leo stands in the doorway and sighs, hand resting on the worn door that Emma's been though more times than she can remember. His other hand is clenched into a fist and he's looking down at the floor and his own sneakers. "You had so much of offer and you threw it all away, Emma."

The urge to defend herself is so strong that she is halfway towards beginning a rant about how she cannot and should not be held responsible for the actions of another. She was left holding the bag, as the saying went. Neal had tricked her when he knew that the cops were onto him. He'd done it three more times before the dumbass cops had figured it out.

It had been her fault, in the end. She had been the one that had trusted Neal to not screw her over, knowing his past as well as he did. Shame burns Emma's cheeks and she turns, looking away from Leo and back into the locker room proper. She has no answer to what he is saying, because she knows as well as he does that it is all true. She is no better than Neal when all is said and done.

The door opens and closes as Leo leaves, and Emma is alone in the locker room with her shame and her failure. It burns her chest and wells up in her throat like a laugh at something that truly isn't funny. The harsh sob that echoes out of her chest is like a death rattle, and with it dies the last of Emma's dignity.

Emma clenches her hands into fists and squares her jaw, she will not let this beat her, she cannot. She did a stupid thing, and she did her time and has paid a far larger price than most for her mistake. Now she's just one person again, standing in a locker room knowing full well that if she doesn't impress her coach and the others watching her that this is the end of the line once more. She'll go back to being the orphan nobody that is going to be stuck in this place until she dies.

There are kids in the gym when Emma pulls herself together and ventures back out there. They're divided into three groups: red for elementary school kids, blue for the middle school, and black for the high school kids. Emma takes the whistle that Jim shoves into her hands and puts it around her neck shakily. She's been on the other side of this so many times now that it feels weird to hold the power now.

"Leo says to take the elementary school kids and do warm ups, he'll come tell you what drills to do with the afterwards," Jim mutters out of the corner of his mouth before marching off towards the kids wearing blue with a determined look on his face. Emma wants to laugh, but she remembers Jim in middle school and knows that it had not been an easy time for him.

There are ten kids in red, and Emma gathers them all in a circle and gets their names and ages. The little boy that had insulted her shoes – Henry Mills – is standing right in the middle of the group with a curious expression on his face. He gives his name and smiles politely as Emma tells him her own in reply. He's ten, which means that he was born not long after Emma left town. It's strange, really, because Emma is sure that she would have heard about Regina Mills being pregnant before she left. She resolves to ask Mary Margaret when Henry came into being and when Daniel had died. She can't help but wonder if Henry's a bit like her, even if he's still got his mother.

Emma leads them through a few quick laps around the court and then falls into the timeless monotony of stretching and warming up. It's been a few years, but Emma thinks it's like riding a bicycle. She's never going to forget how to stretch her arms and legs so she doesn't pull something important. As they stretch and hold, stretch and hold, Emma tells them a little bit about basics of basketball. Leo's come over to tell her that the first thing that they're going to be doing is working on passing, and then practicing layups until each kid can do five in a row perfectly.

Leo always has had exacting standards.

She spends the afternoon correcting shots and standing under the basket, catching balls and passing them to the next kid in line. They're all pretty decent, as Emma reasons most kids who go to basketball camp would be. Henry Mills isn't great, but there's definitely some talent there, and he's able to make it all the way around the world at the end before any of the other kids are even past the third stop.

They're sweaty and gross by the end of it, and Emma passes around her water bottle and the Gatorade that Leo's left for them as they sit out in the sun, shoes kicked off and wait for parents to come. The kids leave in little groups. Older brothers and sisters picking up some and a few of the high school kids collecting others, mumbling about promising to drive them home.

Henry Mills sits on a basketball by himself, a little ways off from the crowd. He's rocking back and forth, rolling just far enough to nearly lose his balance before correcting it once more. Emma gets slowly to her feet and makes her way gingerly over to him, wincing as her feet fall on to sun warm asphalt. "Is your mom coming to get you, kid?" she asks after a moment of watching him slowly braid some pulled up grass leaves together and then attempt to wrap the braid around his wrist.

He starts, and glances up over his shoulder at her. "She had a city council meeting until four, she told me I might have to wait a few minutes because people won't leave her alone once the meetings are over." He wrinkles his nose after he says that and tilts his head, looking at Emma curiously. "Is it true you've been to jail?" he asks.

"Who told you that?" Emma demands. She folds her arms across her chest and finds herself trying really hard to not look embarrassed. It's always the hardest with kids. They see and they make blanket judgments, no matter what the story is, and no matter the circumstances. Emma remembers from her psychology class as a freshman in college that kids tend to see things as black and white. She hopes that Henry can look past the record and see her. He's a good kid, she's already finding herself liking him.

It must look more like an annoyed grimace, as the kid throws his hands up in the air and goes back to rolling around on his basketball. Emma can see his mother everywhere in him, but his thick mop of hair is all Dan's, and Emma wishes that she'd know him better. She knows what it's like to grow up not knowing anything about the people you came from. She would have been more than willing to answer Henry's questions, if he'd had any.

"My mom was talking on the phone," Henry says and shrugs. "I think it was to Coach Blanchard, but I don't know."

Emma's eyebrows shoot up into the air and she glances back towards the open gym door where Jim and Leo are supervising a shoot around with the older kids. Leo's disappointment with her had been so blatantly obvious that Emma can't help but wonder _what_ exactly they talked about on that phone call, if it was indeed to Leo in the first place.

Still, it's not like she can ask Regina. She'll be glared out and shut down and told that she should take her delinquent ass and leave town. Emma knows how people here about criminals. The worst things that happen here aren't talked about. No one ever talks about them. They're dirty little secrets that are swept under rugs and preserved for the sake of the name of the town and its great leaders.

She taps the ball that Henry's sitting on with her foot. When he turns to look up at her again, Emma points to the netless hoop that hangs gaunt over the far corner of the parking lot. "Wanna play one-on-one?" she asks. When Henry's face falls, Emma hurriedly adds, "Just 'til your mom comes, okay? It's something to do, at least."

Henry's eyes narrow. "You played in _college,_" he says, almost accusingly. "I'm just a kid. You just want to beat up on someone."

Emma rolls her eyes. "I _wanted_," she stresses, "to give you something to do while you wait for your mom, kid, but if you'd rather just sit and roll the air outta your ball instead of shooting around, it's your call." Emma turns back towards the door and jerks her chin towards Jim, "Besides, I'd beat up on Jim before I beat up on you."

He seems to contemplate this for a moment before he scrambles to his feet and kicks the basketball up and into his hands. When Emma lets out a low, impressed whistle, he smiles sheepishly. "I play soccer in the fall," he explains as Emma steps back into her shoes and pulls the laces tight.

"Ah," Emma replies as they walk towards the hoop. She doesn't know if she's going to play him hard or just mess around because he's a kid. Little boys are competitive. Emma remembers when Killian was younger how angry he'd get that Emma was better at shooting hoops than he was. She gets it, she understands, and she lets Henry have the ball first.

It isn't until he's scored on her twice that Emma finds herself coaching his footwork, telling him that he's too short to dribble through his legs when he loses the ball off of the back of his knee and has to chase it off the court and onto the grassy lawn beside it. The salt air is cooler than it is in the gym and Emma's pointing out how he's moving and backing up, ball in her hand.

"Watch me," she says, and he nods, still on defense. He's playing her close, his hand in her face as best as he can as Emma crosses over and then reverses, spinning away from him and up into a jump shot that rattles home. Emma chases down her rebound and passes it back to Henry at the top of the key. "You try it now," she says, pulling up her shorts and getting down low so she's on his level. "And don't travel this time."

He nods and his tongue is poking out of his mouth in determination, spinning away from Emma's hands and dribbling around into a three-step layup. Emma watches as his feet fall and the ball heaves up to bounce against the backboard and just off the rim. _Just like Mike, _she thinks with a smirk at her lips and wonders if he's seen that movie.

The black Mercedes pulls into the parking lot just then, and Henry stands, ball resting against his hip and looks nervously at Emma for a moment. She gives him a small smile and holds out her hand. "Let's get you home then," she says. She's not sure that he's going to take her hand. He's ten; he might be too old and too cool for that.

His hand is sweaty as he presses it into Emma's and she can't help but think that he's maybe just a little bit sweet as he dribbles with his other hand back to his mother's car. Regina is getting out; gigantic bug sunglasses perched on top of her head and in a pencil skirt and sensible flats. Emma can see a pair of heels in the back seat next to her briefcase and resists the urge to smile.

"Ms. Swan," Regina says tersely. Henry hands Emma back the basketball and Emma holds it against her chest like a shield, desperate to escape whatever ire Regina might be about to direct her way. "Henry," she says and nods to her son. "Hop in the car, dear."

"Bye Emma," Henry says, opening the car door.

"See you, Henry," Emma replies, with a smile and a one-handed wave as she closes the door behind him and reaches for his seatbelt. Emma watches him until she's assure that he's strapped in before she dares glance at Regina once more. "He's pretty good," she offers lamely. Regina's got her hand resting on her hip, fingers tapping against the crisp fabric of her skirt. There's something about her that sends Emma back twenty years in time to another woman who used to do that same exact thing, her other hand always clenched into an angry fist.

Regina's expression softens and she nearly smiles at Emma before glancing over to Henry. "He prefers soccer," she admits, shaking her head. There's something so completely and utterly beautiful about her in that moment that Emma's breath catches and she finds herself unable to look away from the scar on Regina's lips and the way that her bangs fall into her eyes. She's aged beautifully and Emma probably still has the same crush on her that she's had since forever.

"Thank you," Regina adds after a moment, as if she's remembered herself and who's she talking to. "For entertaining him until I could get here."

Emma shrugs. "Don't worry about it," she says truthfully. "Henry's a good kid, I don't mind shooting around with him after camp."

Regina says nothing for a long moment before she lets out a quiet sigh and steps closer. Her eyes are fierce now, flashing dangerously in the late afternoon sunlight. It takes all of Emma's will-power to not take a step backwards, taken aback by the sudden advance. "Do not grow too attached, Ms. Swan," she hisses darkly. "We both know that you'll be gone again before the summer's out and his heart will break to know that his new favorite person cares so little for him that she won't even say goodbye."

Puffing out her cheeks and exhaling Emma clings to the basketball in her hands and retorts, "It's not my fault that you weren't around, you were getting married in two months, for Christ's sake!" Emma sighs and brushes some of the bangs that have escaped from her ponytail back behind her hear. "Killian told me about Daniel," she adds lamely. "Regina, I am _so_ sorry."

It's probably one of her worst decisions to reach forward to touch Regina's shoulder, for Regina shrinks away from her touch and grasps her keys tightly and spins on the spot. "You overstep your bounds," she hisses and climbs into the car.

Emma watches almost sadly as the black Mercedes pulls out of the high school parking lot and hopes to God that Henry will be at camp the next afternoon. She'll apologize and apologize, but she'd never thought that _Regina_ of all people would care about the fact that she'd left without saying goodbye. They'd never been that close, and Emma knew, she just knew, that Regina probably blamed her for the scandal and quiet revoking of the foster parent credentials that Regina's mother had held.

Shaking her head, she turns and heads back into the gym to put the basketball away.

Leo is standing in the door, his expression closed off and sad. "Sad business that," is all he says as he takes the ball from Emma's hands and puts it back on the rack. The gym is mostly empty now; the few high school kids that remain are standing around Jim, discussing something quietly amongst themselves. Emma shifts uncomfortably under Leo's gaze.

"Killian told me what happened," Emma says quietly, not wanting Jim or the kids to overhear. She doesn't know why she's curious, or why she's even asking. She's been up since five and desperately wants a shower before she has to cook dinner for Killian and Billy. Since she's skiving off the boat at lunch, she's offered to cook until she can be full time again. "Is it true that some people think Dan got pushed off the boat?"

Emma can feel, rather than see, Leo go rigid beside her. He shakes his head violently and presses his finger to his lips, pulling Emma out of the gym once more. "You need to be careful who you say that around, Emma," he whispers urgently. "I know that you've never really cared for the rules here, but this is one of those things that is better left _unsaid._"

Swallowing hotly, Emma nods. She's already wondering if she can go to the town library and use the Internet to look into the death and see if there is any reporting on it that isn't local. "Got it," she lies.

"Good," Leo says, and claps on her the shoulder. "You did good today kid."

And Emma's heart soars.

_"And I'll lie too and say I don't mind_

_And as we seek so shall we find_

_And when you're feeling open I'll still be here_

_But not without a certain degree of fear"_

- Blues Traveler


	5. Chapter 5

**The Return**

_a fanfic by anamatics_

* * *

**Chapter Four – Blueberry Sal (15 August, 2012)**

_"Framed my stories_

_Of a long long time ago_

_You sit inside and_

_Watch your only days go by"_

- Sambassadeur

Emma goes back onto the boat full time when August comes, but she finds herself missing Jim and Leo and the constant companionable feeling of basketball drills and pick-up games. Emma knows that she can't keep it up and that there is no future for her in coaching, not with the record that she must disclose on every job application until she turns thirty.

Killian's boat, at least, is steady income. It's not as much as she'd like, but enough that she's starting to feel comfortable. She has no idea what she's going to do when he dry docks the boat in November. Killian's operation isn't big enough to keep up through the winter, and Emma hasn't found a way to ask him what exactly he does during the winter.

She eats lunch with Jim on Saturday mornings, watching him watch a woman and her husband across the diner with interest. Emma knows better than to say anything, for the husband and wife have been married since they left high school the year before Emma graduated. He's the part-time deputy sheriff and vet tech and she's one of the town's three lawyers.

Jim's in love with her and it is as obvious as the sky is blue. She's never actually seen them talk, but after two weeks of lunches, Emma realizes that this time and table are very carefully chosen. Ruby must have noticed too, for she's taken to shooting disapproving looks in Jim's direction whenever she thinks she can get away with it. Emma's glad that she doesn't have to play the disapproving friend this time around, Ruby's got it covered and she can simply sit back and not stick her nose into places where it doesn't belong.

Still, it's hard to not want to get caught in the middle. Emma doesn't ask about it because she doesn't to know. Storybrooke's mantra really should be '_don't ask questions_' - the answers are never worth the trouble. Emma chews them over slowly in her mind, working them through and through. She never voices them for fear of destroying the easy peace of these mid-morning lunches. Instead, she retreats to the woods with Mary Margaret, baskets over their arms, hunting for wild blueberries and blackberries.

Mary Margaret's new apartment is part of the old foundry building, which has been converted into apartments. Emma understands why someone with Mary Margaret's tastes would have fallen in love with a place like this. It's all chipping paint and crumbling brick and she can't help but think that the cost of heating the place once winter sets in is not going to be worth the cheap rent.

Still, she has her own space, a bed and a bookshelf with exactly three books on it now. She'd had to use Killian's credit card and the public computer at the library to order the third in the series, the book shop hadn't had it, and the Barnes and Noble in Bangor didn't either. She's finished the entire series now, and is trying to figure out how she feels about the events that transpired therein. She sits up in her bedroom at night and stares at the exposed ceiling beams, wondering what she would have done in that situation.

She hears the plight of the sailors, but she understands the officers as well. She's stuck in the middle of the conflict, not really knowing if she wants to think too hard about what she would do in the same sort of a situation. She is in the hell the Christian described; it has simply taken a different form.

Boats have been a part of her life since before she can really remember. Emma's always been fascinated with them and how they work. She'd been fostered with two fishermen when she was a child, both of whom had noticed her affinity with the sea and had welcomed her onto their boats. Sometimes Emma wishes that she hadn't been so good at basketball. Maybe it would have been enough to settle for a place like Storybrooke. To have her own boat, her own lobster pots and maybe a side business of cod fishing in the winter would have been so easy.

The ocean is in her blood, basketball too. She knows she cannot ever choose one or the other.

Emma follows Mary Margaret into the woods on the weekends like a lost dog who craves the routine more than something to do. Mary Margaret has been picking berries in the woods for years now, making homemade jam to sell at the Miner's Day celebration in October. She's specifically planted anything, but she can usually get a good twenty-or-so jars out of the blueberries and blackberries that grow wild up the craggy hills above the town.

"You know," Mary Margaret says, reaching for a particular fat blackberry by Emma's knee as Emma gets the top of the bush. She inspects it carefully for worms and mold before putting it into her basket carefully. Emma knows you have to be gentle with blackberries. You don't want to bruise them before you crush them for the jam making; it does soemthing to the flavor. "You never told me how Regina took you teaching Henry basketball last month."

Emma bites her lip, setting the berries in her basket and blinking up into the sun that's streaming through the tall pines above them. She doesn't really know how to articulate how effectively she's been shut down by Regina Mills. Henry's a great kid, and Emma's gotten to know him pretty well over the past few weeks. He's even and steady, smart as all get out for a kid just going into the fourth grade. Emma's found that she misses him when he's not around, and the idea scares her. She's never cared for children before.

"I said I was sorry about Dan," she explains, picking her words carefully. She'd spent the better part of a Saturday not long after Leo had told her to mind her own business holed up in the library's basement archives. The librarian (some foreign woman that Emma had never seen before) was very helpful in providing her with all the old copies of _The Mirror_ and the _Kennebec Journal_ that they had on microfiche. Emma had slogged back through time, reading about the special election for Regina's horrible mother a year and a half following her husband's death. The governor had appointed her without questioning her character, which Emma thought was hilarious, considering how horrible she was.

It had taken almost the whole afternoon to piece together the investigation and circumstances surrounding the death of Regina's husband. Emma had found that she could barely remember him outside of her memories of Regina. The newspapers wrote that he was a fisherman's kid who had liked horses more than people. He hung out with the vacationers, working as a pool boy and then on the docks as a skipper for the out-of-town crowd, taking them around the islands off the coast and out into the open water to fish. He had an oceanfront lifeguard certification and had swum competitively for Storybrooke High while he was at school there. The idea of him drowning, even in stormy seas, seemed unlikely. The fact that he wasn't even wearing a life vest stood out to Emma as the most telling of all. In weather like that, the first thing that any sailor worth his salt would do would be to throw on a life vest. It just didn't sit right.

"Ah," Mary Margaret says, setting her basket down and pushing herself to her feet. Her voice pulls Emma out of her thoughts and she finds herself nodding slowly. The investigation had just stopped after the coast guard had ruled it an accident, even if the facts didn't add up. "I take it she shut you down?"

Emma nods slowly and jams her hands into her pockets. Mary Margaret's hair is frizzing slightly in the August heat and it almost looks like she has a halo in the sunlight. It's a strange look on her, especially since Emma knows that she has hardly the picture of innocence that her obsession with shabby chic and dressing like she fell out of the sixties indicate. "She doesn't like to talk about it, does she?"

"Dad says that she took it really hard," Mary Margaret reaches her hand back into the bush and plucks a berry from it and inspects it carefully before she pops it into her mouth. "I was at school when it happened. I have no idea what they were doing out in weather like that. Dan, at least, should have known better. The Senator too."

Emma helps herself to a particularly fat berry, enjoying the tartness and then the sweet on her tongue before she swallows and sighs. "Boys and their boats, huh?"

"I hate to think that ego caused that to happen," Mary Margaret says. Her nose wrinkles in something akin to disgust.

They have four quarts of berries when all is said and done. Wild blueberries are a lot smaller than their cultivated counterparts, and Emma's impressed that they've managed to find enough of them for Mary Margaret to immediately start washing them and laying them flat on a towel across the countertop.

Emma hasn't made jam since she was ten and far too young to handle a steaming copper pot full of boiling fruit and sugar. She does what she's told as Mary Margaret throws jam jars and a fresh pack of sealing caps into a frying pan, boiling everything sterile as Emma slowly stirs the blueberry and sugar mixture, waiting for it to boil.

"Why are we making it with pectin?" she asks as Mary Margaret pulls the package from the cupboard and reads the instructions carefully. Emma knows that she's done this so many times that she doesn't need to check, but it's the ritual of the thing that draws Emma in. Everything here is ritual and practice, over and over until it's perfect in how it hides the weariness and the cracks in the underbelly. All Emma sees town struggling desperately to keep its head above water, but she knows that that isn't how outsiders see it here. This is a quaint little town full of vacation homes and fishermen who sell their wares at the docks at the end of the day. This is a place where there can be no secrets.

And yet all Storybrooke has, it seems, are secrets.

The last time Emma made jam was with the foster family that had kept her for nearly two years before they'd had to move to Portland. Emma had never wanted in that house, and she counts that place as one of the few where she's ever felt loved. She remembers the jam taking hours to cook then, slowly stirring a copper bottomed pan until it was thick and ready to be put into jars.

Mary Margaret raises her eyebrows and squints over at all the blackberries sitting in their baskets on the kitchen island. "We have a lot of jam to make, Emma. Forgive me if I cut a corner to save on cooking time."

Emma sticks her tongue out and counts one Mississippi, two Mississippi as she stirs in the pectin that will help their jam to set nicely. It starts to thicken almost instantly and Emma stirs and counts. When she reaches sixty, she cuts off the heat and steps back, letting a bright yellow glove-wearing Mary Margaret pour the jam into little decorative jars one after another, putting the caps on them tightening them. Emma flips them upside down afterwards and sets them on a high shelf where they'll be out of the way.

There are seventeen little jars of jam on the shelf by the time they finish and Mary Margaret starts the first batch of blackberry just as soon as Emma's scrubbed out the pot. The process starts again and Emma finds herself moving in tandem with Mary Margaret around the apartment's small kitchen, making jam and washing dishes.

Later that night, Mary Margaret writes out labels for the jam while Emma cooks for the pair of them. She's making pesto with the basil that Mary Margaret's been growing in a window box on Leo's back porch that is now nestled in the bathroom window. The motions are so practiced now that she almost loses herself, lost in her thoughts.

Mary Margaret sets down her pen on a completed sheet of labels covered in her elementary school teacher handwriting and reaches for her mug of tea. "Why didn't you come home when Killian's father died?"

That... is not an easy question.

Emma reaches for the cheese grater and sets about grating as much parmesan as she thinks should go into the food processor. The steady, up and down motion and the barrier of the kitchen island between the two of them is like a shield against all that Emma doesn't want to think about.

The problem is that Mary Margaret has never judged her save for this. This is the ultimate betrayal in her eyes, and even though Killian has long-since forgiven her for it, Mary Margaret apparently still has not.

"When you called, I was in Montana," Emma says, gripping the top of the cheese grater so hard her knuckles are white. "I was about to start - the first game of conference play. I was broke, living on the charity of my teammates and coach. Do you know how hard it is for a coach to provide assistance to a player without the school or the NC-double-A coming down on their heads?" She sets the wedge of cheese aside, on top of the ziploc bag they've been storing it in. "I didn't know how I was going to get home over the summer. And to ask for help with another plane ticket... I couldn't do it."

"He was your best friend, Emma," Mary Margaret replies. Her lips are pulled into a scowl and she's glaring at the mug in her hands. "And you didn't even call..."

Emma runs a hand though her hair, forgetting that there's basil and cheese all over it and curses quietly, moving over to the sink to rinse it out of her hair. She stands with her shoulders slumped and her hands resting on the sides of the sink, almost shaking out of fear and desperation. Mary Margaret of all people should have understood.

No one seems to understand.

"I couldn't do it," Emma says quietly. Her voice is shaking and she feels far smaller than she's felt in years. There's no gigantic lesbian in her face this time, daring her to act out like the 'Barbie' that she was in prison. No, just a friend from home who has always seen straight through her bullshit. "I couldn't. Killian's dad was like a father to me, same as your dad. I couldn't handle it. I went out and played my best for him. That was probably my best game for them, Mary Margaret."

"And after?"

Emma sighs, crumpling. "After..." she lets out a small-sounding bark of laughter that she doesn't feel. "After I didn't know what to say. I didn't even know he was struggling." She shakes her head and tucks the wet strands that she's rinsed out behind her ear. They're cool and keep her grounded, the dampness reminding her that she's alive. "It was a shit thing to do, I know that now. It took me a long time to figure that out, but I get it now."

"Is that why you came back?" The question is so innocent and Emma doesn't have the heart to tell her that this idyllic life in this dying town is really not her scene at all. She likes the smaller cities. St. Paul, Raleigh, Boston. Big enough to be a city, but not big enough to overwhelm her. Chicago had been like that and Emma had lost herself there for weeks before she'd felt comfortable enough to move around through life. She'd worked in a bakery there and had moved on to waiting tables and tending bar at a trendy nightclub.

It fell apart, though, like everything she's ever touched. Someone had googled her and she'd been fired on the spot.

She can't tell Mary Margaret that she came back because she is too broke to go anywhere else or that she needs to lean on the kindness of others until she can get back on her feet. She can't very well tell the truth that she can't apply for any meaningful job with her record and she's going to be pulled back into the world that she'd just barely brushed against when she'd first left this peaceful seaside haven if she's not careful. "I came back because I needed to figure myself out," she says truthfully. She's been struggling to keep her head above water for so long now that being here and not needing to work so hard for it has left her desperate for things to occupy her mind. She's reading again, books about betrayal, but that's always been a theme in her life.

Mary Margaret smiles at her and it seems real and genuine. Emma's grateful that she's the forgive and forget type.

They eat in a comfortable silence and afterwards Mary Margaret does the dishes. Emma slowly turns all of the jam jars over and carefully wipes them clean with a soapy sponge and then dry before putting the labels onto them.

"There's an odd number this year," Mary Margaret says, contemplating their batch of 'Maine Wild Blueberry Jam 2012' with a finger to her lips and a towel over her shoulder. She reaches for the odd jar our and hands it to Emma. "You should find a home for this one. I don't like prime numbers."

Emma rolls her eyes takes the jar, holding it clutched in her hands like a lifeline. It's an olive branch in the form of bizarre OCD and they both know it. "I will," she promises.

The jar is placed on Emma's bookshelf, next to her three books and a nearly-perfect urchin shell that she'd found out on the rocks one afternoon. She stares at it as she falls asleep for nearly a week before she figures out what to do with it. They have the half-jar leftovers; blackberry mixed with blueberry and it makes the best sandwiches ever.

Henry Mills comes around the harbor one afternoon, staying respectfully away from the edge of the docks as Emma, Billy and Killian unload the day's catch. They went to some of the pots that are further out today, and the catch is very good. Emma's pretty sure that she's going to walk away from today with at least a hundred bucks in her pocket and she's excited because that's half the rent right there and she can probably save at least half of it for the winter.

"Hey Henry," Killian calls, saluting him with his hook and smiling brightly.

Mary Margaret had once joked that Killian was so good with kids because he would probably never have any of his own. Emma thinks it's something different though. Killian is a true testament to the adage that it takes a village to raise a child. He can play a father figure to Henry same as Leo or Jim.

Henry bites his lip and waves back and Emma has an idea. "Are you guys good for a few?" she asks. Most of the catch is unloaded now, and it's just a batter of wrestling it all into the back of Killian's truck and taking it to the market.

"Sure," Billy says and Killian smirks. Emma feels a wave of irritation well up within her, wondering what the hell he thinks he knows. She just likes Henry. He's a good kid who's sort of like her. He shares the same sort of loneliness.

Emma shucks off her overalls and stands in cut-off jean shorts and rain boots. She's got lobster ick in her hair and probably needs suspenders or a belt to help her pants stay up. She doesn't care though, because Henry's face lights up when Emma scoots up the dock to greet him.

"What're you doing down here?" Emma asks. She smiles what she hopes is a friendly and encouraging smile after she asks, but she isn't sure how nice it actually looks. She feels like a total head case, standing there with her hands jammed into her back pockets with her ridiculous rain boots on her feet, grinning like an idiot. It's the end of the work day, and there's actually traffic around. Emma has no idea what Henry does with his time when Regina's working. She doesn't think Leo's running any more camps this summer. She hopes that he's not all by himself all day, but Emma's been a latch-key kid before and she knows the look well.

Henry hitches his backpack up his shoulders and shrugs. "I got bored at the library and they're about to close anyway. Mom said it was okay to come and see you since she's got stuff to do at the office still." He bites his lip for a second, very pointedly not looking at Emma in the eye, before adding, "She's having a bad day, my grandma called this morning."

_Oh Regina,_ Emma thinks. She can't imagine a conversation like that doing anything but ruin a day. And Henry's just so frank about it, like it really isn't that big a deal that his mother is sending him into the care of the town's librarian and then potentially a known criminal. Emma's brow furrows. "Why would she say something like that? I'm probably one of her least favorite people, kid."

"She said to come find you because you'd understand, whatever that means," Henry sticks his lip out and eyes Killian and Billy and the day's catch. Emma is willing to bet a lot that he's going to ask if they can go to the market in Bangor with them. There're enough seats in the truck if Billy stays behind (which he usually does since he's got a girlfriend and all).

Oh.

Swallowing hotly, Emma nods once and holds out her hand to Henry. "You want to come to the market with us?"

She's throwing out a lifeline to a kid that doesn't know he's drowning. She doesn't even know if he is struggling. The guilt of not noticing before when she was practically living with the man's son still haunts her to this day.

Killian's come up the dock now to stand beside them. "Best not take him out of town," he says and winks at Henry. "Why don't you two hose down the boat while Billy and I go?" He looks Henry up and down, appraisingly. "You're a bit small for a cabin boy, but you'll have to do."

Henry, to his credit, sticks his tongue out at Killian and pulls his backpack off his shoulders. There's about fifteen comic boots and lunch box inside it, as well as a beat-up pair of rubber boots. He kicks off his sandals and pulls them on and leans his backpack against the far end of the dock where it's sure to not fall into the water. "I can do it," he assures Killian and Emma just smiles and shakes her head.

"I'll bring you your pay later tonight," Killian promises and pats Emma on the shoulder, saluting with his ridiculous prostatic and winking lewdly at her.

"Leave it with Mary Margaret if I'm not back yet," Emma says and he looks at her oddly for a moment before glancing at Henry. Emma nods almost in-perceptively and his eyes widen before he steps aside and moves to help Billy lug the catch up to where his truck is waiting.

"Tell me how much you get for that big one!" Emma calls as they drive away, hose over her shoulder. They'd caught a monster lobster, claws the size of Emma's hand and had spent most of the day speculating how much it would sell for. The thing had to be at least seven pounds. Maybe more.

"Will do!" Billy calls and the old Isuzu drives up the parking lot and towards the state road that will take them to Bangor.

They wash the boat down quickly. Its low tide, and the waves are calm today. The sun isn't quite to the point where it's setting either. They walk down the docks and towards the exposed rocky outcropping that juts out into the harbor, creating the gentle curl of the cove that housed the harbor.

Emma isn't sure how comfortable Henry is with the water. He keeps a respectful distance as Emma picks her way down to one of the shallower pools and pulls the small bucket that she's got down with her. This is hugely illegal, but she's never been caught harvesting mussels before. She inspects the little blue shells and keeps one eye on Henry as he selects a rock that's barnacle and seagull shit free and settles himself onto it.

"Does your mom have bad days a lot?" Emma asks. She really should have a tool to do this, pulling the suckers off the rocks is hard barehanded. She braces her feet in the shallow pool that she's standing in and selects a section towards the bottom of the rock and begins to pluck the mussels one by one and drop them into her bucket that is in constant danger of floating away to the deeper part of the pool.

She doesn't want to look at Henry when she asks, because she's not sure that she can control the emotion that's sure to flit across her face.

"Not as much as before," Henry says, picking at what Emma really hopes isn't bird shit on the rock next to him. "She used to be sad all the time until Kathryn and grandma told her that she should run for Mayor when Mr. Spencer retired."

Emma remembers Al Spencer vaguely. He was always up for reelection when she was a kid. She had made a habit of stealing his signs and putting them all on his front lawn during the election her junior year of high school. She'd never gotten caught, but after that she'd noticed that everyone watched her closer. He was a decent mayor, neither good nor bad, really. Just _there._

"I'm sorry about your dad, Henry," Emma says, tugging at a stubborn mussel for a minute before giving up and leaning over to retrieve her bucket. A crab scuttles across her shadow, pinchers raised in defense as Emma disturbs the careful peace of his tide pool. Shaking her head, Emma glances up to see Henry staring down at her. "He was a good guy."

"I don't remember him," Henry says, tilting his chin up and looking for all the world like his mother. Haughty, defiant, he refuses to admit emotion just like she does. "And grandma threw out all the pictures..."

Emma drops a mussel into the bucket, horrified. She had briefly borne the brunt of that hatred and control, but she would have never imagined that that awful woman would have destroyed all evidence of her daughter's momentary happiness. Her hands shake as she steadies herself, trying to not look too shocked as she clambers out of the pool and up to where Henry is still picking at yup, bird shit.

There are a good thirty mussels in the bucket, and Emma reasons that for two people, that should be fine. She holds out her hand to Henry, bucket banging against her calf as it dangles loosely from her other hand. He takes it and pulls himself to his feet. "Your grandma was wrong to do that," Emma says, looking him directly in the eyes. "I don't have any parents, Henry, and even I know that's wrong."

He chews his lip and doesn't say anything. His hand is sweaty in Emma's and they walk back to the boat and collect his backpack. Emma's not thinking about anything, because she thinks she'll hitch her way down to Washington and punch Cora Mills in the face if she does. She cannot believe that woman.

They walk through town, the criminal and the mayor's son and senator's grandson. People look at them curiously. Emma thinks that it might have more to do with the bucket that she's carrying with her. "I want to change before I take you to meet your mom, okay?" Emma asks.

Henry nods and glances towards the clock on top of the library before he shakes his head and sighs dramatically. The clock is broken, and it has been for as long as anyone can remember. "I think we have time," he says, and follows Emma up the steps into the old foundry building.

The clock over the stove reads six thirty as Emma pours the mussels into the sink and fills it with cold water to get the sand and salt out of them so she can cook them for dinner later. Henry inspects the kitchen with interest and hops up onto a stool when Emma tells him to sit tight as she runs upstairs to change.

She throws on jeans and a tank top, and then pulls on an old flannel on top of it. She looks like a total dyke, but Emma's spent time in a women's prison and you gotta do what you gotta do. It's not like she's fooling anyone palling around with Killian Jones anyway. The man's more flamboyant than most drag queens that Emma's met in her travels.

Emma is in the process of pulling her hair back into a ponytail when she sees the little jar of jam, sitting on top of her bookshelf with her hairbrush and her three books. She picks it up and stares at it for a long moment, before she tucks it into her pocket and heads back downstairs.

The walk to Regina's office at city hall is surprisingly short, and Emma can't help but think of all the other times that she's been in this building. This was where the town clerk's office was, where she had to go every time she changed foster homes to make sure that she was properly accounted for. She's spent more time in this building than she cares to acknowledge, but she's never been to the third floor before. She can't shake the feeling of dread as her flip flops smack against the floor. Henry's still in his rain boots and is stomping around like he owns the place.

He pauses at a fairly non-descript door and waits for Emma to catch up before he pulls it open.

Regina's office is decorated in black and white. Emma wonders if she's missed her calling as an interior designer, for the place is so very her, while still being tasteful and professional. Emma probably could have done without the weird wallpaper, however. She stands in the doorway as Henry stomps his way over to where his mother is sitting behind a large and imposing desk, her hair looking slightly disheveled and a pair of glasses perched on the end of her nose. There's a stack of papers in front of her with various sticky-notes and flags sticking out of it that reminds Emma a little too keenly of school.

"Henry," she says. She honestly sounds surprised, and then her eyes flick to the watch at her wrist and her face falls. Emma wonders how common an occurrence this is. "Is it that late already?"

He nods, his eyes solemn. "Killian let me wash out his boat," he explains. "And I read that book you told me about at the library."

"Did you now?" she murmurs as he comes around the desk and stands in front of her. She presses a kiss to his forehead and glances over to where Emma is still trying to decide if she's intruding if she comes in. Henry swipes at his forehead, trying to rub the kiss away, but Regina catches his wrist and kisses his palm. He scowls at her and she raises an eyebrow at him before asking, "Ms. Swan helped with the boat washing, I hope?"

Emma shoves her hands in her pants pockets. "Nah, he was appointed cabin boy, I just supervised."

"And got the high spots and the coolers," Henry says pointedly. He'd explained to Emma that his mother didn't let him clamber around on the gunnels of boats without a life vest and that Killian's boat didn't have any that would fit him as they were all for grownups. The harbor was deep, he'd explained, and while he could swim, he didn't think he could make it all the way over to the ladder on the other side of the docks without needing to be rescued. Emma had seen his point and had done the hard to reach areas and the coolers for him.

"And those," Emma says. She still hesitant to step into the room, but does so and closes the door behind her. "Thanks for sending along reinforcements," she adds as Henry crosses the room to sit on the couch and pull off his rain boots. He puts his sandals back on and announces that he's going to get a drink from the water fountain.

Emma watches him go and realizes that he doesn't really need one. He'd had water on the docks and then again at Mary Margaret's. The kid is just stupidly perceptive and is giving them a chance to talk.

Pulling the jam jar from her pocket, Emma crosses the office and sets it neatly before Regina, right smack dab in the middle of her pile of what looks like budgets. Emma doesn't envy her. "First batch of the year," she explains when Regina picks it up and inspects it, holding it up into the setting sunlight in the large window behind her desk. "Made last weekend."

"I never realized she started so early," Regina comments, setting the jar down and resting two fingers on top of it thoughtfully. She looks up at Emma then, and Emma can see that beyond the strained corners of her eyes there's a little redness, the remnants of tears that couldn't quite be disguised with makeup.

"She's always been one for preparedness," Emma says with an elaborate shrug. They lapse into silence once again, and Emma chews over what she could possibly say to Regina. She doesn't want to bring up Dan again, or even how terrible Regina's mother can be. All she can think is that she's sorry over and over again.

"I'm sorry I left," she says quietly, picking at a fraying piece of string that's coming off her jeans. "Both times," she adds fiercely. She looks up and meets Regina's eyes, steady and strong.

"You were a child," Regina says wearily. She picks up the jam jar and reaches for her purse, tucking it carefully inside. "You should have never been subjected to that in the first place."

Emma shakes her head violently. "How can you say that? You..." she can't bring herself to say how guilty she feels that her placement with the senator's kind wife and young daughter all those years ago was only temporary until a more permanent place could be found. She got to leave, and she knows that it probably got worse. "You didn't get to leave..."

"What happened in that house when you were not there is none of your business, Ms. Swan," Regina says curtly, but there's a softness at the corners of her eyes that catches Emma's interest. Maybe she just needs to keep trying and Regina will open up. Maybe she just has to find the right words. "And besides, don't you have enough problems being a known felon in a town like this?" She crosses her arms across her chest. "I don't see why you came back; you can't ride on Jones' kindness forever."

"I can't get the record expunged," Emma retorts. "I've tried, trust me. They tell me that no matter how obviously a patsy I was, I was still holding the bag full of stolen watches at the end of the day. I did my time, but fuck... I can't even vote anymore, let alone get a job."

"Have you talked to Kathryn Nolan?" Regina asks mildly. She doesn't seem particularly moved by Emma whining about how she's disenfranchised and miserable and broke. She supposes that Regina never had been particularly moved by her whining, given how much Emma had enjoyed complaining about the summer work she'd been set for Chemistry back when Regina'd tutored her. "She's quite good."

"I have no money," Emma says sadly. She's thought about it, fantasized really. She'd been too young and stupid to realize that the settlement she'd been given was meant to cover the cost of expunging the record. Now, she regrets zigzagging across the country, trying to find a place where she could find belonging. She's back where she started, really, and this is the only place that truly feels like home. "I don't even know what I'm going to do come November when Killian takes his boat out of the water for the winter."

"Talk to Kathryn, Emma. Like Mr. Blanchard, you'll find that there are many people in this town who are willing to help, if you ask nicely." There's something about the way that she says it that makes Emma's eyes widen in surprise. She remembers Henry mentioning something about Regina talking to Leo back on his first day of basketball camp. She doesn't know how to ask if it was Regina that put the idea in his head. He and Jim would have had the camp covered, but they'd had a place for Emma without even questioning her record.

Regina stands, tugging her purse over her shoulder and staring down at the papers on the table for a long time before reaching for her keys and jacket. She gives Emma a pointed look and plucks her glasses off of her nose and puts them away in a case that Emma thinks says _Gucci_ but she can't be sure because Regina's hand is partially covering the logo and she slips the case before Emma can get a better look.

"Are you willing to help?" Emma asks quietly, almost under her breath. "Because I'm willing to help you."

"I don't think you can help me, dear," Regina says loftily and sweeps over to collect Henry's backpack and rain boots. She holds them up gingerly, inspecting them. She's obviously found the bird shit that they'd walked through on their way out to the tide pool and her nose wrinkles in disgust. "And I'll thank you to not take my son too close to the water again."

Emma bristles. Regina had been the one who had sent Henry down to the docks in the first place. Grouchy, moody woman that she is probably doesn't even remember doing it. Emma scowls. "It was just the tide pool on the finger," she explains. "Cove side, he wasn't even near the water. I was."

"Gathering something illegal no doubt," Regina glares at Emma and Emma folds her arms over her chest defiantly. "I could have the sheriff write you a ticket."

"I'd thank you to _not_," Emma retorts. Her tone is mocking and as Regina glares at her, she finds herself raising an eyebrow in challenge.

"Then keep my son away from the ocean, Ms. Swan," Regina replies curtly. "It's bad enough that he's still so taken with you." She folds her coat over her arm and shrugs Henry's backpack over her shoulder. It's hilarious, almost how _mom_ she looks, despite the power suit and towering heels. It's a good look on her, and Emma finds that she can't look away. "And if you're serious about helping anyone, go see Kathryn Nolan."

Emma trails after her and out of the office, watching as Regina sets the alarm and shuts off the lights. It seems as though they've had their first productive conversation since Emma was seventeen and they were discussing molar mass and the periodic table. This is worlds away from that now, and Emma feels hopelessly out of depth. "You'll be okay, though?" She knows that she's pushing it; she knows she should stop, but she can't. She has to make sure. "Henry said you were having a bad day."

"It's a council meeting day, dear, they're always bad," Regina brushes past her, smelling of Chanel and sunlight. Emma can't help herself, reaching out, and touching her. She has to know she's real. Her fingers brush against the silky material of Regina's shirt and she snatches her hand back, her ears burning at her audacity.

Regina says nothing, and the faint pink on the mayor's cheeks as she bustles down the hallway, calling for her son is entirely worth the death glare that Emma receives. She stands there, hands in her pockets, smirking.

She's going to call Kathryn Nolan.

_"Well she wants to live her life_

_Then she thinks about her life_

_Pulls her hair back, as she screams_

_'I don't really wanna live this life.'"_

- Train


	6. Chapter 6

**The Return**

_a fanfic by anamatics_

* * *

**Chapter Five – Lawyers and Lobsters (3 September, 2012)**

"Please don't change, please don't break  
The only seems to work at all is you  
Please don't change, at all from me  
to you, and you to me"  
- Matchbox 20

Labor Day is awash with colors. They let the traps go longer and spend the days out in the sunlight, sitting on Killian's porch and drinking beer that Mary Margaret's friend Leroy has made in his basement. It's delicious stuff and Emma tells him so with a smile and a nod as he leans over the railing and chatters with Billy. He's an older guy who works down in the mines most days. The homebrew is a weekend gig for him, apparently. Emma's curious as to how that works. She doesn't know anything about beer making, but there's an actual brewery in Storybrooke and two more in Bangor. She wonders if she could get a job doing that once the winter sets in.

Killian has called Regina, asking after Henry and promising a lobster bake once it starts to get dark. They've got all the supplies inside, and have amassed an obscene amount of seaweed to pile over the firepit that Emma and Billy spent most of the night before digging down on the lone little patch of sand and shells amid the rocks that formed the shoreline. Emma's pretty good at preparing for these bakes, they used to have them at the beginning of every basketball season to raise money for the team, usually to great success.

Regina is coming, which is strange. She's the mayor and this is a holiday weekend. Emma would assume that she had other things that she needed to be doing, but Henry's first real week of fourth grade is next week (there'd been half-days and inservice the week before, according to Mary Margaret), so there's really no time for them to take a vacation.

Billy's wheelbarrow is loaded with found driftwood and the remains of last year's firewood from four different households, apparently. Emma follows him, an old LL Bean bag full of kindling and pine needles under one arm and three days of newspaper under the other. "You sure you can get this started," she asks when Billy turns to her in his silly red knit cap and begins to unload the wood.

The pile of seaweed is jumping with small shrimp and flies now, but that's to be expected. They'd wanted it to be a little dry before they started cooking. Emma pokes it with her sneakered foot and wrinkles her nose as a small cloud of sea and land creatures temporarily rise up off of the mound of seaweed before settling once more. "Gross," she mutters.

She sets down her newspaper and kindling on top of the sawed-in-half barrel that's going to serve as their steamer-come-smoker and gets to work building a fire in the pit beneath it. The trick with lobster bakes is to put fresh, wet seaweed into the bottom of the steamer and to season that, rather than the meat itself. Emma's always loved doing this, Killian's dad used to do them for the whole town on Labor Day to raise money for the orphanage or the school or Make a Wish. It was something different every year, but Emma and Killian always were in charge of helping.

They get the fire going good and hot and Mary Margaret starts the process of ferrying the food that they're going to cook down to the grill. They've got lobsters and clams and mussels that Emma puts on the bottom, followed by corn on the cob that's been soaking, husk still on, overnight in water. Corn's tricky, and Emma's never quite gotten the hang of it. In with the corn go onions and eggs, which will cook like they've been hardboiled by the time the night is out. Emma pulls out the tin of Old Bay that's been jammed into her pocket since she came down and she sprinkles it on everything before shoving more seaweed on top of the food and stepping back, careful not to catch her jeans on fire.

The smell of swarm, salty seaweed fills the air as they back away from the grill and retreat to the safety of Killian's porch. It's going to take an hour or two now, and they're content to wait. Emma drinks more of Leroy's basement brew. It's good; he says that he's made it with the blackberries that grow behind his house. Emma wonders if that's how he and Mary Margaret got to be such good friends, seeing as Mary Margaret knows all the good berry spots around town and exploits them expertly in her Miner's Day jam making adventures.

Killian comes to sit beside Emma on the porch steps. He's not wearing his hook today, and the empty void where his hand once was is strange to look at. "Have you ever thought about getting a hand shaped one?" Emma asks, pointing with her beer bottle to the stump of his arm where at ends at what was once his wrist.

He shrugs and pulls his sleeve back with his spare hand, beer carefully tucked between his booted feet. Emma can see the scarring that runs all the way down his arm and wonders just how bad of an accident it really was. "It was nasty at the time, but now it's just sort of there," he says, staring at it. "I still feel it sometimes, phantom limb and all that."

"I-" there's an apology on the tip of Emma's tongue, but she figures that there really always is. She's always saying that she's sorry for something, apologizing her way through life because she's been nothing but a failure and a disappointment since birth. She knows that it isn't true rationally, but it's hard to look past the feeling to see what's really bothering her. "I know that I should have called or come home or something when your dad died."

Killian pulls his shirt sleeve back down and reaches for his beer. "I knew that you wouldn't, even after Mary Margaret said that she'd spoken to you."

"How?" Emma asks.

"Because I wouldn't have known what to say either, Em," He says. He smiles sadly at her and touches her cheek with his weathered fingers. "You're like me, you say things when you can, but a lot of the time you don't." He sighs and stares out over the road to the cove and the gently lapping waves against the rocks. Its mid tide; and the pools are starting to disappear, one by one, as the water rises. "My dad was like that too."

Emma runs a hand though her hair and sighs. She understands, really she does. Killian's dad had been strong and silent, an unwavering man of the sea. He'd longed for a peace that he'd never found and love that he'd never had. Emma didn't know how he'd done it, all those years, when he was falling apart inside. "We should try and be better about it, for his memory," she says.

Killian nods, but there's a twinkle in his eye that says 'Danger Will Robinson' as loudly as the sky is blue. He winks at her and leans in to whisper in her ear. "You should admitting to yourself that you nearly broke up the most beautiful marriage-to-be that Storybrooke has ever seen with your devilish charm."

Planting her hand firmly on his face, Emma pushes his away. Her cheeks are scarlet and she's very pointedly looking at her feet, clutching her nondescript beer bottle like a lifeline. "I did nothing of the sort," she retorts, but it has no feeling. She'd nearly done exactly what he'd said, which made the situation even worse.

"Tell that to the girl I found crying on my doorstep demanding to know what airport you were flying out of," Killian's got his arms crossed and he's grinning widely now. Emma's ears are burning and she bites her lip, looking away from his knowing gaze and out over the ocean once more. The ocean is simple, it has its moods, it ebbs and it flows with the tide. The shorelines may change, but the ocean itself is constant. It's what Emma wishes her life could be. Steady and with none of the heartache of homecoming and return.

"She was getting married, Killian," Emma bites the inside of her cheek hard, remembering the promise of it all being thrown away, if only Emma would ask. Emma couldn't steal a future like that, not when her own was right before her. She'd left with Leo and Mary Margaret and had resolved to never come back. "She was happier that way."

Killian scratches his chin with his lone hand and gives a little shrug. The smell of burning seaweed is drifting over them now, along with the warm and fragrant tinge of roasting onions. Emma inhales deeply and wonders if maybe they should start to check on the clams and mussels. The lobsters, by her estimation, need about another fifteen minutes.

"She did love him," Killian muses, watching as Mary Margaret and Billy pull aside the seaweed and open their steamer. Jim, who apparently had arrived while Killian and Emma were talking, is standing ready with a long stick to poke at the steamy mess of seaweed inside. "You confused her."

Emma groans. Killian is the last person that Emma wants to know that it went far deeper than that. That the confusion had passed to leave simple want and longing and had Emma running scared. "I confuse me,"she mumbles.

Regina arrives with a salad in hand. When Emma raises an eyebrow at it, she's greeted with a curt, "Corn does not count as a vegetable, Ms. Swan," and small, almost shy smile. Emma finds herself smiling back, a little uncertain. She'd done what Regina had asked, but she isn't sure that it's enough to she'd gone to see Kathryn Nolan earlier in the week. Killian had to get his boat license renewed and had to go to Augusta to do it, so she'd had an unexpected day to herself in town. Kathryn Nolan had been expecting her, a stack of papers on her desk and her eyes determined as she shook Emma's hand. She'd listened as Emma had described the details of the case, the ones that she hadn't shared with Killian or Mary Margaret. She'd talked for what seemed like hours, telling Kathryn about how the judge believed that restitution was in order for wrongful imprisonment, but would not wipe her record clean.

Kathryn had asked if Emma had thought to use the money she'd been granted to clear her name, but Emma had sheepishly shaken her head. "I was too young," she'd explained. "I just wanted to get as far away from that place as I could before they tried to put me back there."

"Then where did you go?"

"Vegas, and then St. Paul. I was in Chicago for a while, and then Knoxville." Emma had ticked them off on her fingers, one by one the places that had never been home. "I think I was in Chicago when I finally realized that I couldn't get a job without my record coming up."

She knows that more and more employers Google potential employee names these days, and that she cannot escape that, but if the record isn't there, Emma figures she has more of a chance. She can actually be hired by a friend and not have to worry about the conviction forcing her to be turned away.

Kathryn Nolan has sad eyes and dirty blonde hair that is thrown up into a messy pony tail. She'd been taking notes the whole time that Emma had been talking, but when Emma'd said that she'd laid her pen down and bridged her fingers together. "What sort of work would you want, Emma, could you do anything?"

Emma hadn't really had an answer for that. She's never really had enough time to think about it. Her college education had been cut short and she'd only managed the general education classes through sheer stubbornness. No one had told her that she'd expected to practice all day every day with little time to do much other than go to class and scramble to complete her assignments.

"I..." she had begun, thinking about how she loved spending time on the boat with Killian, but how it wasn't practical or sustainable in the long run. "I like kids?" she had ventured finally. She'd enjoyed coaching the elementary school kids a great deal in July and had found herself actively carving out time to spend with Henry, regardless of Regina's subtle disapproval.

And Emma understands that, really she does. Regina's been burned by Emma once already, and she has every right to be cautious with her son.

"That's a decent start," Kathryn had mused, pursing her lips and making a note. "Have you ever tried to work with children with this conviction?"

Emma hadn't ever even bothered and she says as much to Kathryn. Save for the camp she's never even worked with children. She hates that she's spent nearly five years without ambition, moving with the speed of molasses across the country, blowing through with little cash she had in stupid ways. "I never tried," Emma had explained. "I knew what was going to be said regardless."

Kathryn had hummed her agreement and tapped her pen against her pad pensively. "You've been five years without any criminal record, right?"

"Yeah," Emma had replied, and Kathryn had smiled at her.

"I think I can help you."

Emma doesn't remember Kathryn from school. There's five years between them, apparently, so they were always missing each other by a year. She's a good person, though, and Emma had desperately spent the entire meeting trying not to think about the lingering looks that Jim had given her. The lingering looks that Kathryn had returned.

They'd met once more, before Kathryn had disappeared off to wherever it was that she was spending the holiday weekend. Emma had found Jim leaning over the counter, his face close to Kathryn's with a smile pulling at the corners of his lips. She'd stood there in the doorway and watched as Kathryn had leaned in to whisper something in his ear. It had been so brazen, so obvious that Emma had just about turned around and left in that moment. She wants no part of whatever it is that they're doing, it isn't right.

She'd stayed though, and had slid onto the stool next to Kathryn and had accepted the cup of coffee that a disapproving-looking Ruby had put in front of her with some trepidation. She really didn't have the money to buy frivolous coffees.

"It's on the house," Ruby had explained with a wink and Emma had tipped the mug to her and drained it gratefully. The sort of genuine friendliness that Ruby exudes on a daily basis is fascinating to Emma. She's so rarely met genuinely nice people in her life, and old Widow Lucas isn't the nicest person Emma's ever met. Ruby's just kind and quietly disapproving of what Kathryn and Jim are doing, same as the rest of them.

Jim had left a few minutes earlier and Kathryn had the good sense to look guilty as she'd turned her attention to Emma once more. She'd looked out of place in her smart suit and pumps in a diner that largely catered to local fishermen looking for a cheap dinner after a long day at sea.

"I talked to a former classmate of mine, out in Oregon," Kathryn had explained, pulling a notepad out of her purse and setting in on knee. The other had been bouncing a mile a minute and she'd kept flashing Emma with nervous looks.

Emma'd tried to smile and absolve her then. "I'm not much for judging," she'd explained with a broad shrug. The coffee had burned the back of her throat as she drank deeply, trying to avoid feeling anything at all at the grateful look that Kathryn had flashed in her direction before going back to her notes.

"The policy there's pretty much the same as it is here. Five years clean and you can petition to have the verdict changed," Kathryn had flipped to another page, reading quickly down the page using a pen she'd pulled from the loose bun her hair had been pulled into to tick down the page. "I was told that if you could get the guy who framed you to exonerate you through testimony-"

"He did," Emma had answered quickly. "That's why they let me out, I think."

Kathryn's lips had pursed into a thin line and her whole body seemed to sag. Emma had been afraid of this. Defeat came so easily to a place like this. "I think I need to make some more calls."

"Okay," Emma'd replied, draining the rest of her coffee. She'd set the mug back down on the counter with a smile to Ruby. "I um... I don't have a phone."

"I'll tell Regina," Kathryn had promised. Her eyes had grown warm once more after she'd said it too. Emma'd grinned right back at her until her expression had fallen pensive once more. "I- I had to put you in the middle of this mess, but please try to not say anything to anyone about Jim. Regina knows, but she's the only one."

It's much later in the evening when Emma realizes that Kathryn had been pushing her towards Regina. It's a subtle push, one worthy of the lawyer that she is. Emma had sighed and flopped back on to the bed. She's reading Moby Dick now, having never quite managed to get through it in high school. She likes Melville's prose a lot and finds herself wondering if she's chasing a white whale, coming back here.

Maybe they're all just looking for things that they cannot have, Emma muses, watching as Regina stands in her jeans and crisp white shirt, looking out of place and a little uncomfortable as Emma bustles the salad over to the picnic table. It's strange to see Regina amongst their motley group, but she settles herself down next to Killian and refuses the beer he's offered her in favor of a ginger ale from the cooler. Henry's skipped across the abandoned street to watch Jim and Billy as they unearth eggs and onions and steamer clams. Emma moves to sit beside the pair of them, eying Killian over Regina's head and almost daring him to say something.

"I hear you're to thank for the fire," Regina says mildly. There's a hint of amusement in her eyes, warm and brown and inviting. Emma has fallen into them on more than one occasion and this doesn't seem much different. Killian is off in his own world, watching Henry and the others as they attempt to remove piping hot lobsters and ears of corn from the steamy mess over the fire that Emma has, indeed built.

They're alone in the world, two people sitting next to each other, all hostility set aside for the time being. Emma knows why Regina is angry with her, but she stands by her decision to this day. It was the right thing for both of them at the time, and she can't look back now.

Emma grins, "Aren't I always?"

Regina lets out a quiet snort of laughter and sips on her ginger ale pensively. Emma watches her as her eyes scan the road for cars every so often, most of her attention on Henry. When Killian gets up to answer Billy's shouted question regarding the state of the lobsters, Regina turns to face Emma. Her eyes are alight with all the questions that Emma's sure are not being asked and she's got that look about her. "Kathryn said that you'd gone to see her."

"Yeah," Emma replies. She feels sheepish, knowing that Regina is behind this good turn. She doesn't know how to thank her for it. "I um… she likes Jim?" It isn't what she wants to say, and from the thin line of Regina's lips, Emma knows that she's about to strike out big time. She backpedals, picking at some dirt on her jeans. "I… oh fuck it. I know she's your friend."

"And Jim is yours. This isn't news, dear," Regina says mildly. She stares at Jim with narrowed eyes as he tugs on a pair of fisherman's gloves and reaches into the steamer to unearth the lobsters. Henry's holding a plate and is looking up at him with adoring eyes. Emma wonders if she hates the example that is being set for Henry, with all these less-than-perfect people that surround him. She knows the Mills family way; they want the best out of everyone, even if it means resorting to less pleasant means to get it. Emma has experienced firsthand that fear and that power. She knows Regina has as well, and her heart breaks, knowing she can do little more than stand idly by, even all these years later, as the pressure of being a Mills overwhelms Regina. "She and David haven't been happy for quite some time."

Biting at her lip, Emma nods. Marriage is one of those things that she's never understood. She's lived long enough to know that sometimes people forge connections that are stronger than others, but she doesn't get how it happens. All she knows is impermanence. Relationships to Emma are too deep, they're too intense, and she is scared of them. They run away with all the feelings of safety and contentment that she's afraid to articulate for fear of the peace she's finally found breaking.

And somehow, it's never enough. Killian, Leo, Mary Margaret, they're all friends. They're the sorts of people that Emma can breathe easy around and know that she will not be judged. Emma gets friendship, but she drops it easily, like the families of her childhood. Coming back here and having to rely on people who would have stood by her had she simply reached out to them is almost too much. She cannot stomach that is only her failure that has gotten her here, and she hates that she wakes up every morning with it staring her in the face.

"I had wondered," Emma replies simply. The food is ready, or close to it. Henry's ferrying the platter full of bright red lobsters across the street on slow and sure feet. He doesn't look as he crosses, but the road's been dead for hours now and no one says anything. They don't want to have to rinse the lobsters off if he drops them.

Emma pushes herself to her feet and offers Regina her hand. They're both in jeans and Regina's in this nice white blouse that's going to get lobster all over it if she's not careful. "I'll flip you for dibs on not cutting up Killian's lobster for him."

"That, my dear, is a deal."

Emma has been all over the country in her short life. She's twenty eight now and she can't quite figure out why lobster is considered such a big deal in the Midwest. Along the coasts it's just another thing that can be eaten, but in Chicago and St. Paul, people would go nuts for the things like they were going out of style. She sits at the table that has been crudely constructed out of stacked lobster traps and a piece of plywood that is purportedly going to be cut up and used to repair the railing that supposedly wraps around Killian's porch. Mary Margaret has put a red and white checkered tablecloth over it and they've drawn up benches and chairs, talking and laughing and enjoying the last hurrah of summer.

Everything is salty and tastes slightly of old bay seasoning. Emma shucks her corn as she waits for the lobster on her plate to cool enough to touch. Henry's eating with gusto across from her, not seeming to care that everything is too hot to touch. Killian has (very nicely) asked Mary Margaret to bust open his lobster and it's just the sort of meal that Emma's always found herself wanting.

Lobster bakes were a thing of her past, an entity that had taken on a feeling larger than life. Emma stares down at the sea creature that's waiting for her to take sheers to it and cut it open. It smells heavenly, like the summer corn that falls off the ear as she bites into it. Lobsters are a way of life; they grow with the ocean and the fishermen around them. Lobsters bring people together.

They're a sort of a family, or almost. Leo's off playing fishing with some of his old man friends and Ruby's at someone else's lobster bake. It'd be perfect if they were here too, but the atmosphere wouldn't change. Emma likes it this way, easy and full of the companionship that she's always longed for.

As night falls around them, Emma teaches Henry how to play poker with Killian, Jim and Leroy while Regina and Billy discuss the winter. Billy apparently goes up to Newfoundland and works off of one of the boats there during the winter, earning more money than god for what is apparently two months of straight hell in the northern Atlantic. Emma wonders if that's the sort of thing that she could handle, but she knows that that sort of work is a boy's club and the last thing she wants to do is get trapped on a boat with a bunch of men for weeks at a time. Who knows what might happen.

The sick feeling of dread wells up in Emma's stomach as she thinks about the winter. She knows that she'll figure out something, but that Kathryn Nolan is her best bet. There is no kindness in the world that will keep her paying rent if she cannot find herself a job come November. Emma pushes the emotion aside, not wanting to dwell on it, and flips the last card in the river, her face perfectly neutral as she finds herself sitting on two pair, aces high.

They throw out the remains of their lobsters for the gulls to find, scattering them into the die where they're sure to be devoured come morning. Emma jams her hands into her back pockets and turns to Regina. "Do you hate me for what I did?" she asks.

Regina tosses the last of the remnants into the ocean and shrugs. She's remarkably clean for one who's just eaten a lobster, but Emma'd watched her do it with awe. Regina's a fucking expert with a pair of shears and a fork, apparently. She'd done Henry's for him as well, dismantling the whole lobster in less than five minutes and minimal mess. Emma, to her credit, was also fairly clean, but only because she'd tucked a napkin into her shirt and didn't much care what Leroy or Killian had had to say about it.

"How can I hate you for doing the right thing?" she answers evenly. It's a question to answer a question, but it intrigues Emma none-the-less. "Daniel and I were in love, we were getting married…"

Emma finds herself reaching out for Regina, taking her hand and holding it tightly, afraid that it will be yanked away. Regina meets her gaze evenly and does not pull her hand away. "I am really sorry about what happened. All of it."

"I know," Regina replies, and her eyes flutter shut. "I am too."

They stand there for a long time, Emma just barely pushing back her fear and clinging to Regina's hand like it's a lifeline. She doesn't know what's happening, and she's not really sure that she wants to know. It feels good and right to stand here like this, no matter the baggage and the damage and whatever else has transpired between them. There's peace in this moment, and Emma is grateful for it.

"If there's anyone at home at your place, darling  
Why don't you invite me in?"  
- Counting Crows

* * *

Soundtrack is here: 8tracksdotcom [/]anamatics[/]the-return-ost (take out the dot and replace with a period) or search 'the return ost' on 8 tracks.

thank you to Panzerbelle for pointing out my boo boo there.


	7. Chapter 7

**The Return**

_a fanfic by anamatics_

* * *

**Chapter Six – Miner's Day (5 October, 2012)**

_"Wisdom's a gift, but you'd trade it for youth  
Age is an honor, it's still not the truth"  
_- Vampire Weekend

David Nolan moves out of the house he shares with his estranged wife in the middle of September, taking a room at Granny's Bed and Breakfast. It comes as no surprise to Emma, but it's still a little bit shocking to see David sitting by himself in scrubs and crocs drinking coffee at four in the morning when she stops by the back of the diner to pick up the sandwiches that Ruby leaves for them. "Can't sleep?" she asks mildly, tugging at her hoodie and checking that her t-shirt is tucked into her pants.

He looks up at her with weary eyes. He works two jobs, just like Emma would want to, had she had the ability to do so. Emma wonders if that's what drove a wedge between him and Kathryn. "I suppose," he replies, and slumps back against the steps. Emma leaves him to his coffee and heads out to the boat.

The days are cooler now, but it's the mornings that are the worst. Killian's taken to steering the boat as the water grows ever-colder, letting Billy and Emma be the ones who hang over the sides with hooks on poles, trying to catch buoys as they float by. It's safer this way, they all reason, and Emma's happy that he's not taking unnecessary risks.

Emma sees Kathryn Nolan once again as September fades into a brilliant October. The leaves are just starting to go now, and it's beautiful and wonderful to be outside. Mary Margaret's dragged her out to hike on the weekends and Henry's started to play soccer. Emma goes to as many of his games as she can. She misses him, now that he's back at school and doesn't have whole days to laze around with her on the weekends.

She misses Regina too, but that's a slightly more complicated sort of a relationship. Regina is buried under work with the city council, coordinating Miner's Day and getting ready for the winter. Henry says she's always working after dinner, probably going long into the night after he's finished his homework and has gone to bed.

Kathryn Nolan has red eyes all the time now, like she's been crying and is desperate for something that no one can give her. She's thrown herself into Emma's case, even though Emma has nothing to give her. She sells Kathryn's stupidly high allotment of Miner's Day candles with Leroy as a way of saying thank you when Kathryn tells her that she's managed to get a copy of the testimony that Neal fucking Cassidy (may he rot in jail forever) had given in his grand jury trial.

They're close to having everything they need to file a motion, Kathryn promises with a weary smile, taking the money that Emma's made on the candle sales and tucking it into the envelope that's provided to all who try and sell the candles. Emma feels like her heart is lighter then it's been in weeks. They're getting somewhere. There's a chance that this could be resolved, and soon.

"Do you have work lined up after Killian winters the boat?" Kathryn asks mildly as Emma zips up her jacket and pulls her scarf more tightly around her neck.

Emma shakes her head. The only solid lead she has is that the odd foreign librarian is embarking on some sort of archiving project and needs someone to do the heavy lifting. She's still debating if she wants to put in an application, since it's sure to lead to a background check and Emma doesn't want to bring that sort of a headache onto the poor girl. She seems very nice. "Just the library job, but..." She doesn't want to be employed by the town. It just doesn't seem right, especially if things with Regina do progress the way that they've been going.

"Well, if that doesn't pan out, let me know. I might be able to find you something," Kathryn says with a kind smile and Emma swallows the lump in her throat to smile back. It isn't easy, to take advantage of kindness that's offered so freely. Emma's so used to fighting for everything that she has that she can barely stomach the idea of someone helping her out of the goodness of their heart.

When she gets home that evening, Leo is sitting at the kitchen island. He looks older than he's looked in years, his grey hair frizzing at his temples and his beard far more unkempt than it's been in Emma's memory. He's got a pile of colorful checkered fabric patches and rubber bands that he's putting on top of Mary Margaret's jam stores while she prepares dinner in the kitchen.

"Hey," Emma says. She unwraps her scarf from around her neck and smiles at the pair of them. Her boots come off next, set beside Mary Margaret's in a neat little row that makes her feel like she's in a college dorm, not in Storybrooke, Maine. Storybrooke: where absolutely nothing is easy or simple. "Can I help?"

Mary Margaret hands her a knife and pushes a bag of potatoes towards her. Emma stands over the sink and peels them methodically into the dispose-all side, only have listening as Mary Margaret chatters about her day. The ocean had been rough today, and they'd only made it two thirds of the way through their route before they'd heard a small craft advisory over the radio and had headed back to port. She is cold still, the dampness of the sea had crept its way under her clothes and had wrapped her skin in a blanket of ice that not even a hot shower could shake.

Maybe it's just the change in the weather. She'd trended south after a winter in St. Paul and then a spring in Chicago. Emma's never really been much for the cold.

"Actually, Emma," Leo says, and Emma's knife pauses. It's sunk into the potato in her hand, fitting like a baseball, russet brown and solid. Emma could throw it across a baseball field if she wanted to, but now it's a lifeline. It keeps her grounded. "I've been wanting to talk to you about something." Leo falters, his eye crinkling at the corners as he snaps a rubber band around a fabric square over the cap of the jam jar in his hands. "You haven't got a phone though."

"I'm thinking about getting a pay-as-you-go next time someone's heading up towards Wal-Mart," Emma says with a smile. "What's up, coach?" Keeping her tone neutral and easy is harder than it sounds. She recognizes the little digs about her financial situation for what they are. With Leo things aren't ever just statements of the obvious. He's a good man, but he can't look past her failure. That much had become obvious during her stint teaching camp with him over the summer.

Leo sits with his hands on the table. His knuckles are swollen and he looks so impossibly old in that moment that Emma's breath catches. When had that happened? "I want you to assist me with the team this way," he says. He scratches at his beard, his eyes sharp under his bushy eyebrows. "I know that you need something once that boy puts his ship up for the winter."

Emma inclines her head. "I've been thinking about options yes. It's a little hard right now. I was thinking about putting in for the library job."

He shakes his head. "You don't want to work for the town," he points out and Mary Margaret's eyebrows shoot up her forehead. Emma knows what she's thinking and she can't help herself, if Leo's seen it like he did before... It's too late then. "I'm sure that Ms. Nolan will come through for you, Emma, but you have to be realistic. The city can't hire you with your record."

Shame floods through Emma and she drops her gaze down to the potato in her hands. She's learned so many things in her time away from this place; how to cook, how to live, how to be an adult. But somehow, Leo can still reduce her to nothing with a few harsh words. She hates that she cares so much. She hates how cruel he can be without seeming to care. "I know," she says quietly.

"Thanks to the senator's generosity, the schools here are always significantly under budget," Leo points out. He's got a rubber band around his fingers and a blue and white checkered patch in his hand, but his tone is severe. "I've already spoken to the school board and they'd be willing to take you on for the season provided you can demonstrate to them that you're working towards some sort of an education for yourself."

It sounds so much like the conversation that Emma'd had with Kathryn back in August that Emma wonders if Leo's spoken to her. She should have known better than to expect privacy in a place like this. "How much?" she asks, "I can talk to Killian about staying off the boat when practice starts, but he usually doesn't bring the boat in until the first week of November."

"I think that you'll be okay," Leo says with a smile. Mary Margaret touches his shoulder and Emma watches the silent exchange between them. They're so close, Mary Margaret's mother has been gone since she was very young. Emma doesn't remember her at all. "The stipend is somewhere between six and eight thousand, depending on how long the season goes."

Emma's eyes widen and she sets the potato down on top of the peelings in the sink. That is far more than she could have ever hoped for, and if she could find some sort of part time morning position... she'd be set. She could go back to the boat once the season was over. It... it could be perfect.

"I'll do it," she says, determination in her eyes. She knows that she should probably think about it some more, but it's so much money and its work that she thinks she might actually like it.

She doesn't say thank you to Leo until they're seeing him down the stairs and out of the old foundry building to where he's parked his old Crown Vic under the awning that Emma's sure is going to turn hazardous once the snow comes. He's going early to the Miner's Day site in the morning, and Mary Margaret had asked him to take along the first of what would have been two trips worth of jam from her car.

Emma's never been good with words. She knows that kindness deserves thanks, but she's not entirely sure that she can just 'improve' herself like the school board wants and she certainly doesn't want to be paid in money that Senator Mills has funneled into the town's school system through probably nefarious means.

The former Senator Mills would never have done such a thing. He had been far too good a man to ever stoop so low, he let his wife manipulate behind the scenes when such things were needed. Regina had said as much at twenty-two, tutoring Emma over the summer.

_God,_ Emma shakes her head. She doesn't want to think about that summer and what had come after. She'd never meant to hurt anyone.

"Coach," Emma says as Leo sets the box full of decorated little jam jars onto the passenger seat of his car. Mary Margaret had kissed her father on the cheek and had run inside. Emma feels the cold that's driven Mary Margaret indoors, but she stands firm. "Thank you."

He looks at her for a long time, hands in his pockets and his jacket hanging open and lose around his waist. "You're a good kid, Emma," he says at length. "I don't know if doing this will make things better for you, but I hope it will."

"I won't let you down," Emma says, and knows that it's a pie crust sort of a promise. She can't guarantee that. No one can. All she can do is her best and hope its good enough.

Leo nods grimly. "See that you don't."

That night Emma dreams of the basement of the library. She's seventeen and all elbows and so much energy that she plays three sports just to get it all out. She's sitting slumped in a chair, flipping listlessly through one of the summer reading books she's been assigned for her world history class. It's called _Things Fall Apart_ and Emma remembers thinking at the time that the title was apt.

Regina is late in her dream, which she'd never been in all the years that Emma's known her. So Emma suffers through her book and feels the sweat trickle down her back as she reads. It's hot outside and the basement is stuffy and not nearly cool enough.

The door opens and Emma lowers her book, staring into the blackness that appears before her. There's a person there, a dark entity with cruel eyes and hateful expression. Emma bolts to her feet, the book falling forgotten to her feet. Her hands clench into fists and she bites back all the words in the world.

Emma has dreamed of this moment so many times over that she doesn't even wake up as a hand closes around her neck and she's slammed into the wall of the library. She hears the hissing voice telling her that she's abnormal, that she's corrupting and a waste of space. That she's the only reason that the marriage has been given the family's blessing.

She wakes up gasping for air with Mary Margaret's hand on her shoulder. Emma blinks, her eyes adjusting to the light streaming in from downstairs. "You were screaming," Mary Margaret says mildly.

Rolling over, Emma finds herself dry heaving off the side of the bed. It'd been years since she'd had that dream with that sort of intensity. She'd gotten good at waking herself up before it got this bad usually. There's nothing in her stomach, she hadn't been hungry earlier. She hates this.

"I'm okay," she says weakly. "Thanks for coming to wake me up."

Mary Margaret sits on the end of the bed and takes Emma's hand in her own. The contact isn't unwelcome; it's just that Emma doesn't know how to respond to it. She's had others soothe her when she's distressed before, but it never quite feels right. Mary Margaret's fingers are warm and comforting and Emma feels as though she cannot possibly be deserving of such a gesture.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Mary Margaret asks like they're still on opposite ends of high school and this is the easiest thing in the world. She's not nursing bruises on her neck with no good explanation for them. She's not struggling with a terrible decision and falling in love at seventeen. She's not anything right now. She's a blank slate that's slowly starting to develop a face once more with each chance and helping hand that's provided.

The exposed beams in the ceiling cast long shadows and Emma stares hard at her bookshelf and its three books and collection of shells and interesting pieces of driftwood. The fourth book is discarded on the bed beside her, descending into madness and obsession. "It isn't easy," Emma sighs and flops back onto her pillow. "I wouldn't even know where to begin."

Mary Margaret shrugs, "The beginning works."

Emma lets out a short bark of laughter. She doesn't even know if this story has a start. It's timeless like the broken clock tower and the constant tides that rise and fall as the days pass on. "When I was three the foster family that I was living with had to move to Portland. I don't know why, but I was a part of this pilot program that the state was trying, keeping kids within the same community if at all possible. So I couldn't go with them. Instead I was placed with a temporary family until a more permanent solution could be found."

Everyone knows this story, that's the problem of keeping a kid in the same community. It takes a village or whatever that initiative was called. "I met a girl there." The announcement is greeted with laughter and Emma rests her head on her fingers, cradling it as she stares up at the strange shadows of the ceiling. "And I think I might like her more than I've ever…" Emma trails off, sighing and closing her eyes. She can't say it. She knows that there is something there, true, real, genuine feelings that she's desperate to have returned.

"You broke her heart when you left," Mary Margaret says sadly.

"Killian said as much," Emma grumbles. "It was the right thing to do."

"It doesn't make it any easier, does it?"

Emma rolls onto her side. "Not at all," she grumbles. "Not at all."

Mary Margaret leaves a few minutes later and Emma finds herself drifting backwards into an uneasy sleep. She's curled around her pillow, clinging to it like a lifeline. That moment had been her downfall once, it never will be again. The last thought that Emma has as sleep once more claims her is that she'd never signed up for all of this when she'd come back here.

The morning comes bright and sunny, the temperature touching sixty and warm enough that Emma shrugs on only a light sweater and packs her jacket up with Mary Margaret's in the final box of jam with their lunch. Mary Margaret locks up behind them and they head silently down to the car.

Miner's Day has been a fixture in the town for as long as anyone could remember. It's part harvest festival, part fundraiser for the quasi-private elementary school and has always been a great deal of fun. It's held on the Town Green and there are events all across town.

Emma barely remembers the history of the day, or why it's celebrated any more. It's been stained into the wood of her distance for so long that it's a blemish sanded smooth. The nuns here, once upon a time, traded the whale blubber candles that they'd made to the local woodsmen and miners in exchange for coal and wood to heat their school during the winter. Now it's just a fundraiser and a town celebration that draws people from all over New England to partake in the food and late-season harvest festival feel that it has.

"Do you want to close down the stand for a little while and do the corn maze?" Mary Margaret asks as they pass a sign for it. Emma's half-asleep still, a battered travel mug of coffee clutched in her hands as Mary Margaret drives them over to the municipal lot behind City Hall.

"Guess so," Emma says, staring out the window, bleary-eyed as people slowly moved across the green, setting up tables and greeting friends and neighbors. "We could always grab someone and make them man the booth too."

"Like who?" Mary Margaret asks, glancing over at Emma as she checks to see if the space ahead of them is clear to park in. There's an old Subaru that's pulled way forward, and Mary Margaret's face falls and she pulls forward once more.

Emma shrugs. "Don't know," she replies. "Maybe David Nolan might want to help out? I think he's real down right now."

"I'm not taking sides in that, Emma. I know Jim's your friend, but..." Mary Margaret whips the car into a vacant space and shifts into park in one fluid motion. "I just don't want to get involved."

Sipping her coffee, Emma rolls her eyes. "I'm not asking you to take sides, just be friendly. He's a good guy." Emma thinks that this whole thing really took David by surprise. She understands his want to try and make it right, but she's seen how Kathryn's been since he moved out. This isn't easy for her either. Nothing ever is.

Their booth is shoved off to one corner, next to one of the local craftswomen selling thick hand-knit scarves that Emma's sure will be wonderful come winter. Leo's set up their first box and Emma thinks that she sees him talking to Mr. Spencer, the former Mayor, down towards the end of the line of booths. Their hands are shoved in their pockets like old men are wont to do, but they're both smiling and laughing.

There's a stack of candles, a last ditch effort to sell the rest of them, on the end of the table, along with the jam, and Emma helps Mary Margaret to arrange their wares into neat little displays. They've written out placards with ingredients and information about the locales where the blueberries and blackberries were sourced. It seems almost easy then, to settle onto the fifteen year old lawn chair next to Mary Margaret and wait for the festival to begin in earnest.

Ruby comes by with Ashley Boyd with breakfast at about nine thirty. The festival is slated to come to order at ten o'clock with an address from the mayor, and they've resolved to take the cashbox with them and go and watch it. They eat the warm oatmeal cranberry muffins that Ruby's grandmother had send down with her granddaughter and chat about how Ashley's kid is doing, how Ruby's getting along at the diner after the last waitress up and quit to move to Manchester. Mary Margaret has some stories to tell about her students' antics and Emma tries not to act like a walking stereotype and confirms the rumors that Ashley had apparently heard about them finding an old boot in one of their traps the other day.

"I don't even know how that works," Emma laughs in between bites of muffin and sips of lukewarm coffee. "I mean, we were using a net, it was in a lobster pot. I guarantee you that one of those little ones we throw back was trying to fuck with us." She shakes her head as Ruby and Ashley dissolve into giggles and Mary Margaret rolls her eyes at them. She's heard the story from Killian and Emma both now – with Billy's embellishments about how there was a severed foot inside the boot – and Emma doesn't blame her for not wanting to hear it again. It is a little gross.

At ten they troop over to the city hall steps, Mary Margaret clutching the cashbox to her chest and Emma with her hands plunged into the back pockets of her jeans. This is the first time that she's been present at a gathering of this many people from Storybrooke. Heading down to Sprat's for groceries or eating at the diner once doesn't really count. She can feel their eyes on her, feel them watching as she fiddles with her hair and wishes that she'd kept a hair tie around her wrist. She's got half a mind to ask Leo for one, but she's made up her mind to keep her distance.

She's accepted his offer, but she's not sure that it'll be enough to just do that. He wants her to _better_ herself as an incentive and Emma's not sure how to do that. She's not even sure that she can get into a community college with a criminal record. It might have to wait until Kathryn can expunge her record.

Emma shakes her head, trying to force the thought from her mind. It's just another in a long list of failings. She's pretty sure that they'll figure it out when the time comes. It's already October as it is, she couldn't possibly enroll until January for most classes. The school board must know that.

Regina comes to stand on the top most step, and Emma can see Henry by her side. He's holding a candle that Emma can only assume is some sort of a prop. There's a microphone set up, local musicians usually play. Emma's hoping that the sheriff will bring out his guitar. He'd always been really good playing at the open mic nights at the Rabbit's Hole when she was still in high school. Leroy's said he's going to play on his fiddle at some point as well. Regina coughs once and the crowd quiets.

Emma stares. She's never seen Regina as the mayor before. A strange sort of emotion wells up within her, thinking of all the times where Regina has never just been Regina. She's always been something else to all those around her.

Now she is a leader, and her presence is as commanding as her mother's. Emma hates that that's all she can see as Regina takes the candle from Henry and tells of the history of this day in Storybrooke. She can feel those fingers around her neck and the threat that comes ever-closer as hissed words promise swift retribution for her transgressions, both real and imagined. Emma doesn't know what to make of Regina in the same light, a woman in the same mold as the monster that raised her.

It's unsettling to say the least.

Emma closes her eyes and tries to keep herself grounded in the present. She hadn't ever done anything save steal a kiss once. She swallows another thing to not think about. _Ever._

"And with that," Regina is saying, "I declare this Miner's Day officially open." Her eyes sweep across the crowd of people and she adds, a smile playing at her lips, "Ms. Blanchard's blueberry jam is exceptional this year."

It isn't until the quiet lull of conversation begins to gain in volume that Mary Margaret turns to Emma, lock box still clutched to her chest. "You gave it to _her?_" she demands. Her glare is accusatory, but there's no malice behind it. Emma wonders if this is what her strange looks over Leo's comment about not wanting to work for the city yesterday had been about. She lowers her voice and hisses, "Why?"

"Peace offering?" Emma ventures.

Mary Margaret shakes her head and turns on her heel. She makes a b-line for David Nolan and demands to know if he'd be willing to work with her in her booth for a little while. Emma finds herself smiling as the man blinks and takes a hesitant sip of his coffee before nodding his consent. It's only when he takes the cashbox from Mary Margaret and offers his arm that Emma's face falls. What the fuck, she just got ditched.

"Buuuuurn girl," Ruby comments, sweeping by with Ashley and the baby. Sean's waving at them at the edge of the green and Emma knows that she's the odd man out on this. She sighs, shoulders slumping as she waves Ruby and her evil waggling eyebrows off.

She can make her own fun. She can.

Killian avoids Miner's Day like the plague. He's never been much for crowds, and he's gone off a rant about how he hates people asking him how he's 'coping' with his father's death ten years after the fact on at least three different occasions in the past week. Emma doesn't really blame him. Suicide cuts into a community deeply, no matter how fringe a member of society the person who died was. She hates it for him, because this used to be one of his favorite things when he was younger.

Emma wanders through the stalls alone, trying to force herself to seem inconspicuous. She wishes that she could just march up to Regina and as her if she wanted to take Henry to the corn maze with her, but it's not that simple. She's not even sure that Regina will say yes, for one. Nagging doubt fills Emma and she bites her lip. There's a lady selling honey straws and beeswax candles. Emma digs in her pocket for a quarter and sucks on a raspberry honey straw, stalking moodily around the stalls.

The question comes unbidden: how do you peruse someone who doesn't give any indication of wanting to be perused? Regina's given her leeway, sure. She's let Emma become close with Henry, certainly. But it's been so long since Labor Day and the feel of Regina's hand in her own that Emma wonders if that was just a one-off, doomed to never happen again.

"You mope like it's your job, dear."

Emma jumps and turns, finding Regina standing behind her, her hand on Henry's shoulder. She's smiling wickedly, a gleam in her eyes that sets Emma on edge. She's up to something, and Emma knows Regina's playful side well-enough to know that it is _far_ too early and she hasn't had _nearly_ enough coffee to handle this. "Jesus," she mutters, pulling the honey straw from her mouth. "You scared me."

She's greeted with a raised eyebrow and amused giggle from Henry. "Really?" Regina sounds almost impressed. Her grin widens. "I would have thought you impossible of startling, Ms. Swan."

Folding her arms across her chest, Emma cocks her head to one side. She has no idea why anyone would think that. She's the biggest coward in this town outside of the old pawnbroker, Mr. Gold. Everyone knows how that story played out. She isn't as bad as him, driving his wife and son away only to spend the rest of his days missing them terribly. She tries to look brave and meet Regina's gaze coolly. "Is that a challenge, Ms. Mills?"

"It might be," Regina replies in a neutral tone. She brings her hand up to ruffle Henry's hair. He's wearing a flannel shirt that looks brand new and certainly is in better condition than the one that Emma's wearing. Emma wonders if Regina had actually let him out of the house in jeans, or if he'd insisted since its Miner's Day. "Henry had wanted to go to the corn maze before it gets crowded and my duties will force me to be here."

It's not articulated as such, but Emma knows it's an invitation. They're not exactly direct people, but Emma desperately wants this and is willing to read into implication and body language to get what she wants. She smiles at Regina and puts her hands in her pockets. Had she been braver, she would have offered Regina her arm. She's not David Nolan, however. She cannot woo this woman with noble intentions, apparently. "Sounds fun," she says.

They fall into step together, walking to where there's a horse-drawn wagon driven by some disinterested-looking high school aged kid waiting to pick up people take them up and over the hill to where the maze is set up. The ride has always been part of the charm for Emma in the past. She likes horses well enough and the gentle sway as the cart draws them towards the maze is soothing.

A knot of anxiety forms in Emma's stomach when Regina asks her if she's heard anything from Kathryn regarding her case. It's never easy to talk about this. Her case is like a mirror of all that she's going through now. Stymied in not knowing and not quite understanding, Emma hates how out of the loop she feels.

"Leo wants me to be an assistant coach this year," Emma says, slumping back against the hay bale that serves as a barrier to keep small children and grown-ups alike from falling out of the wagon. She watches Regina carefully as she says this, looking for a reaction of any kind. Regina's always had a great poker face, and Emma hates the reason why more than anything, but her eyes are always telling.

Brown eyes narrow, and then clear as if relief has flooded through them. "So you're not going to run?" Regina asks. Her tone is tentative and full of non-expressed emotion. Emma hates that she had to make that decision when she left here, she'd hurt so many people then. Regina most of all.

Emma shakes her head. "Nope," she explains. Henry's sitting up at the front of the cart, talking to the driver, but Emma can tell that he's listening in. There's a smile on his face that he can't hide at all and he keeps shooting his mother victorious little eyebrow wiggles. Emma almost laughs. He really is his mother's son. "Kathryn's doing my case _pro bono_ and Killian's going to need a hand until Billy gets back from Canada in April." _And there's you_, goes unsaid, but Emma thinks that Regina hears her. "It doesn't seem fair to anyone to come back only to leave again after the summer. I'm not eighteen and in college anymore."

"No," Regina agrees. "You're not."

The rest of the ride is spent in silence. They're the only people on the cart, the first run of the day. Since Regina's the mayor, Emma assumes that the kid driving doesn't launch into the historical tour of Storybrooke and the surrounding area, instead choosing to drop them off at the top of the hill with a smile and a promise to be back in a bit.

"Let's go!" Henry says, almost bouncing off into the entrance to the maze. "Race you guys!"

Regina opens her mouth to call him back, but Emma puts a hand on her shoulder and shakes her head when Regina turns to look at her. "He'll be fine," she says. The maze has never been hard, just challenging enough that you'll get lost for a few minutes before crashing out the other end to freshly pressed cider and laughter.

"I worry," Regina confesses as Emma can't quite bring her fingers away from Regina's shirt sleeve. She lingers and Regina doesn't seem to mind. "He's always running off."

Emma smiles, grateful that Regina's not pulling away. She feels almost hopeful for the first time in what feels like forever. "He gets that from you, you know."

Scowling, Regina huffs and crosses her arms. "I think he gets it from Killian."

"Oh, sure," Emma rolls her eyes. Killian's told her about how he and Regina had become friends – how it was largely her fault. Emma doesn't really know what to say, knowing that her once best friend had been the shoulder that Regina had cried on when Emma'd left town. Dan hadn't really been an option, she supposed, and Regina's mom was a piece of work to this day. It is just… an odd couple, really. It's almost like they shouldn't be friends because their stations in life are so completely different. Emma bites her lip, wonder if she should say anything else and knowing that she was stepping dangerously close to the edge. "He's a good influence," she decides upon, meeting Regina's gaze evenly.

"He thinks himself a pirate," Regina points out, but Emma's started towards the maze entrance, a smile blossoming across her face. Pirate he is not, but a good friend, Killian definitely is. They're all just along for the ride, it seems.

It's only when they've been turned around a few times and Emma can hear Henry shouting that they're too slow that Emma looks down and sees that their fingers are still laced together. They're standing in a dead-end, nose to nose as they contemplate their next move, and Emma wants to kiss Regina once more.

The first time had been a mistake. An adolescent fumbling spent steadfastly ignoring the engagement ring around Regina's finger and the fact that you're only supposed to fall in love with one person at a time. Regina's hair had been longer then, and her eyes not quite so sad. She looks almost quietly amused now, a bit flustered and her cheeks are puffed out in annoyance as Henry starts to taunt them once more.

"He's competitive," Emma mutters, reaching forward and picking a bit of straw from the cart ride off of the lapel of Regina's smart jacket. The dead end small and they're so impossibly close to each other that Emma knows that if she asked, Regina would say yes. "I'll give him that."

"That is my influence," Regina replies. She's smiling now, bright and radiant and for that split second, Emma thinks that all her pain just melts away. It's the pain that intrigues Emma, knowing that she's caused some of it. People have been hurting Regina her whole life, and Emma feels like she should try and make what she did right. She couldn't destroy Regina's life then, but maybe now that they're older, they could try once more.

"I'm sure." Emma lifts a tentative finger to brush Regina's bangs out of her eyes. The stare she receives in response is intense and not without the carefully guarded hurt that Emma knows is always there. "He's a good kid," she says. "You did good."

After, she's not sure who moves first. Regina sort of tilts and Emma's fingers come down to cup her cheek and then they're kissing and it's good. Fuck, it's so good.

_"Why not think about times to come,  
And not about the things that you've done,  
If your life was bad to you,  
Just think what tomorrow will do."_

- Fleetwood Mac


	8. Chapter 8

**The Return**

_a fanfic by anamatics_

* * *

**Chapter Seven – Storm (28 October – 31 October, 2012)**

_"I won't be your winter_

_I won't be anyone's excuse to cry._

_We can be forgiven._

_I will be here."_

- Sister Hazel

The waves are high today and they're racing against the clock. The _Roger_ is a small boat, it can only ferry about fifteen traps at a time if the coolers are empty and Killian has at least a one hundred trap operation. He's driving today, wearing neon orange instead of his usual black. Emma's leaning off the stern, a hot pink life jacket strapped on over her bright yellow rain slicker that she's borrowed from Billy. It's a little bulky about the middle, but they're about the same height, so it works well.

There's a storm coming. It's been all over the news and has nothing to do with the Sox imploding to a truly historic level and missing the playoffs. The reports have been trickling in all week, a hurricane is racing up the coast and is set to collide with the nor'easter that's been brewing off in the Atlantic for the better part of a week now. If the two systems merge, they're likely to take all of New York and New England out with a whooping one-two punch of high seas and torrential rain.

Killian's standing at the helm, squinting through the wind and the rain. He's driving from memory now, making a point to set off at low tide so they can see the rocks getting out of the harbor. The last thing they want to do is wreck in this weather. The water temperature has dropped to the low forties and it's splashing up on Emma's face as she stares out into the sea, looking for another pot. All they can hear is the wind and the crackling of the weather radio as it reads and repeats the same warnings over and over again. Small crafts are warned to return to port, there will be swells increasing in size as the day goes on. Fishermen are urged to return to the shore as well.

"You sure this isn't just a nor'easter?" Emma shouts to Billy as they lean forward, boots hooked under the coolers and attempt to hook one of Killian's black and white striped buoys. The last time there was a storm this bad; Killian's dad lost seventeen pots and the town had flooded. They can't risk that, none of them have the capital to replace them.

Billy's hook catches around the rope and they haul the buoy over the side and attach the rope to their crank, hauling in the greenish rope from the steely depths of the ocean. "Yeah, they're saying it'll be like '92 again," he shouts and Emma casts a nervous glance over towards the shore of the small, uninhabited island that they're circling. They'd started at dawn, a red sun rising, casting the sky a dangerous color as they worked as quickly as possible to haul in as many pots as possible and get them back to shore. They'd look at the catch once they'd gotten back.

"What's this one?" Killian calls, his eyes never leaving the horizon. He's been keeping watch over the black clouds that are hovering there, down off towards Boothbay and Boston beyond. There's a state of emergency declared for the entire region and all the local fishermen are out trying to gather their supplies before the storm hits. Emma knows that there's a sandbagging effort that the kids have been pulled out of school to help with, Leo had called her on the pay-as-you-go phone that Emma'd picked up a week ago and had told her to not worry about practice until after this storm passed. The first game wasn't for another two weeks anyway, an exhibition against the kids in Bangor to kick off the season. They had time to volunteer and make sure that Storybrooke could weather this storm.

Billy flips the buoy over and squints, "Sixty Eight," he shouts and Killian takes the oil pencil that they've used to draw a crude grid onto the navigation board and makes a check mark under the six category. So far they've brought in about forty pots, starting from the furthest out and working their way in. Emma is cold and wet and tired, but she knows that if Killian loses any pots that it will be a bad thing for everyone.

She grits her teeth and when Killian heads towards the next pot, she doesn't complain or shiver.

The day drags on and on. It's been getting dark at close to five thirty now, and they've still got pots that need to be brought in. Not many left, Emma thinks that there's only about five more. The sea is not agreeing with them. The wind is howling now, and rain is lashing down against them as they stand and peer off into the growing darkness, trying to spot black and white amongst the frothy gray of the sea. Emma feels like she's slogging through cement, each step grows more and more challenging as she leans over and hooks another pot.

Her wrist twists and time seems to freeze as a wave rocks the boat out from underneath her feet. She pitches forward into the water, hand still half-holding onto her hook, the buoy wizzing by her head and the boat falling away behind her. Emma lands flat on her stomach and the air is almost wrenched from her lungs as she coughs and splutters, struggling to right herself. The life vest keeps her up and she can scarcely hear Billy and Killian's shouts over the roar of the ocean in her ears.

The water is cold. So cold that Emma can't really feel it at first, as it flows into her rain boots and soaks through to her skin. It pierces through what little warmth she still has under her rain-wet clothes with the twist of a knife in her back and steadies there, numbing her before she even has a chance to truly feel the cold.

Emma knows that she has to get out of the water, but she can barely even see the lights of the boat. Her feet are clumsy in her boots and she knows better than to try and kick them off in this weather. She doesn't know how long she's in the water, time seems to blur together into gasping for air and struggling towards the lights of the boats.

A wave crashes over her and the world goes salty dark for a moment before she feels hands on her back. She wants to fight against them, but as Killian and Billy haul her over the side of the boat all she feels is cold.

"Shit, Em," Killian is saying, pressing his hand to her cheek and nervously peering at her chattering teeth and soaked clothes. "We gotta get you to a hospital."

Billy's maneuvering the boat back into the harbor. The last pots are here, Emma thinks. They should be okay. Her mind is moving through molasses, every thought taking a herculean effort to process. She's so cold, and the icy cut of the rain against her skin is enough to make her want to stop all together and just fall back into warmth.

"Emma," Killian is saying, "Emma, I need you to stay awake." He bites his lips and Emma blinks wearily at him. She can see how afraid he is when she hears Billy barking into the radio, saying that they need an ambulance down by the docks and he doesn't care that the whole street is sandbagged already. The world is fuzzy and Emma feels her breath coming more slowly. How long was she in the water? How cold...? The world grows fuzzy around the edges and Emma knows that this is very bad. She shakes herself, desperate to stay awake as she hears Billy curse quietly.

"How long was she in, you think?" Killian asks. They've got Emma wrapped up in a space blanket from the first aid kit, but she's still in all her wet clothes. They know better than to take them off in this weather. They have to keep the heat in now.

"I don't know… Maybe five minutes?" Billy sounds panicked and Emma blinks wearily. She can hardly keep her eyes open, but she knows that she needs to stay awake, to stay shivering. Shivering will keep her warm until they can get her to the ambulance and the clinic. "They're going to send an ambulance."

"Good." Killian replies.

Emma drifts, in and out and across the sea. Her mind is in a million places, and she barely can concentrate on the fact that she'd spent five minutes in forty degree water. She could have died.

When they pull into port all Emma can see is the red and white flashing lights before the world grows fuzzy and then dark once more.

She dreams of wind and rain; of floating across the surface of a still pond. She's eleven and desperate to understand herself. She lets the water take her, allowing herself to fall down and under the water. She's only eleven; it should not be this easy.

No one would care if she was gone.

She's eleven and she's trying to learn her place. She doesn't understand the family that gave her back, or the family that had hurt her so badly and then sent her away. All she knows is that she's to stay here in this town, bounced around from place to place. A pillow for her head, but for how long.

To sink down to the bottom of this lake would be easier. The new family is she's never heard of before. No mom. A boy and his father. He's a lobster man.

Maybe it will be good this time.

The water ripples as Emma slowly pushes herself back towards the light. Dawn breaks overhead and she's wearing hospital scrubs and is wrapped under three blankets. The light that she's seen is a dim table lamp, the only light in the otherwise dark room. A hand is clutching her own, and a dark mop of hair is splayed out across the pristine white of the sheets.

A monitor beeps quietly, barely audible over the sound of her own breathing. Emma stares at the hand in her own. She's never - not like this. Not even when she sprained her ankle in seventh grade. No one's ever cared enough to sit with her before.

Outside, the wind is howling and the lights are already low. Emma wonders if the storm has hit fully now. If she listens closely she thinks that she can hear a generator roar in the distance. That's a bad sign, if the power's out then there's no telling when it will come back on. Emma remembers '92. They all do, that flood is like a scar across the collective memories of this town. They hadn't had power for two weeks then, two weeks at the end of October, just like this.

"'Gina," she mumbles, squeezing the hand in her own gently. She knows that Regina hates the nickname, but she can't really help herself. It's one of those things that slips out of a sleep-numbed mind and Emma can't fight it. "Hey."

She stirs, fingers curling up and into Emma's hand. Emma holds fast, a tired smile tugging at her lips. She licks her them and tastes salt and shivers. She doesn't know how much of the ocean she took back with her before Billy and Killian had pulled her out.

"What time is it?" Regina asks. She wipes the corner of her mouth with her free hand and runs it tiredly through her hair.

Squinting to read the monitor, Emma sees that it's close to two in the morning. Groaning, she struggles to sit up. "Two..." she mutters, staring down at their hands. "What the hell happened?"

All she remembers is the flashing lights and the freezing cold. After that there's nothing - a void as black as the ocean at night. Emma bites her lip and wonders why Regina's there.

"Killian called me and said that you'd fallen in," Regina's voice is scratchy with sleep and there are black circles under her eyes. Her mascara's run and Emma wonders if it's because it's pouring sheets of rain outside or if she's been crying. She doesn't know how to ask, and her mind is still sluggish with sleep. "How could you be so stupid, going out in that weather?"

Blinking, Emma finds herself pulling an affronted face. Her eyebrows knit together and she scowls. "I didn't mean to fall in," she retorts angrily. She gets why this is a big deal, but she's also here, alive. She's not going to wash up some fifteen miles away, body battered and broken amongst the rocks. She's not Dan.

Emma hates that she can see the tears coming almost before they begin to glisten at the corners of Regina's eyes. She shakes her head and pushes herself into a more fully sitting-up position. "Hey," she says, her fingers catching Regina's cheek and brushing the wetness away there. It's a murky black, staining her cheek with the run of her makeup. "I'm okay," she promises. "I just got too cold. I'm not going anywhere."

This is the sort of a promise that she knows she can keep. She won't do that to Regina, not ever again.

Regina chuckles, her voice cracking quietly. "Pie crust."

Emma frowns. "What?"

"That's a pie crust promise," Regina says. She wipes her eyes and pulls away from Emma. She's beautiful like this, sad and oh so broken. Emma wonders if Regina can ever be whole. "You're always making them."

"I wasn't aware I had to take life lessons from Mary Poppins," Emma retorts. She folds her arms across her chest, defiant and refusing to let Regina's scowl get to her. "I meant it. I don't want to go anywhere."

"You suffer from delusions as well as wanderlust, apparently," Regina stands and reaches for her coat. Her hand is gone, and the warmth of her against Emma's leg is gone. Emma misses her so desperately that her heart aches.

"Why are you here, then?" Emma demands.

Regina's got one hand shoved down into her coat sleeve. Her scarf is hanging out the end of the other and she looks ridiculous in her anger. Emma knows that she has no answer, because to say it would be to admit that there is something that has as much potential as there's ever been. There is no answer to this predicament that they find themselves in, because to confess such a thing is surely too much for this fragile peace.

"Killian called me," Regina says shortly. She yanks her scarf out from the arm of her jacket and drapes it around her neck before shrugging on the coat. The scarf is a deep red; it cuts a bloody stripe down Regina's middle. It's a reminder of everything that Emma cannot have, shackled away in a prison that stolen kisses and intense gazes cannot infiltrate. "I don't abandon my friends."

Emma wants to retort that they were never friends, but thinks better of it. She lets the warmth of Regina's mistake wash over her. "Okay," she says, a goofy smile drifting across her face.

"I'll send Doctor Whale in." With that, Regina is gone, the wind whistles outside and Emma wonders just how bad the storm is outside. When the doctor comes in a few minutes later, Emma answers his questions and drifts back into an uneasy sleep.

This time, she doesn't dream.

In the morning, Emma wakes up to a pale dawn and a flooded town. The bulkhead has failed in a few places around the shore, and the tide had washed over the street by the harbor. Emma knows that she's pushing it, but she calls Mary Margaret and demands that she be discharged so that she can help out with the clean-up.

Mary Margaret comes with coffee and warm clothes. The temperature is hovering at fifty degrees and Emma can't help but wonder if she's even truly warm yet. She follows Mary Margaret and David Nolan as they pick their way after Ruby and Ashley. They've been tasked by the sheriff to take David's chain saw and cut up a few of the trees that have fallen into the road.

"Hey," David says, leading them to the back of a forest green Subaru and waving enthusiastically at Kathryn as she and Jim clamber out of the car. "I sent them back to the house to pick up all of the supplies we'll need." There are work gloves and hatchets and the chainsaw itself. Emma stays well away from it, taking a hand saw and moving to trot beside Jim. Kathryn is staying behind, speaking tersely to David.

Their divorce is close to being finalized now, Emma remembers Kathryn mentioning it during one of their meetings.

"Do you think it's weird that they can still be at least somewhat okay with each other?" Emma asks as Jim shoulders an axe like a professional lumberjack, not a gym teacher.

He shrugs. "I dunno, I've always been of the severing mindset, but that's kinda hard in a place like this."

"Tell me about it," Emma agrees.

There are five downed trees in all just on Main Street alone. Leroy comes to find them at lunch time and tells them that the bridge to the mainland is almost completely underwater at low tide, so they're probably not going to get any state aid until the water levels go down. There's no power for half the town as it is.

They're onto the second tree, using the back of David's pick up to ferry the firewood to the town green, where they're stacking it under tarps for anyone who wants to use it. It's hard work, and Emma knows that she's not fully recovered from her unexpected plunge into the ocean.

"I heard Regina came to sit with you," Mary Margaret says in an undertone as they're walking to the next downed tree. Everywhere is wet, covered in pine needles and small sticks and fallen leaves. There are people raking out their lawns that raise their hands in greeting to Mary Margaret and eye Emma with some suspicion. "Last night, I mean."

Emma's cheeks flush a bright scarlet that matches her jacket almost to a tee. She rubs at her nose, wiping away snot and dirt and sniffs to avoid answering the question. Mary Margaret's giving her that look that almost dares Emma to not answer. "I..." Emma mutters, before noticing Kathryn waving at them from where Jim is taking his turn with the chain saw. "Oh look, Kathryn wants us."

Mary Margaret grabs Emma's arm and pulls her towards the leafy end of the tree, away from where Jim and Kathryn are. "Nice try, Emma." There's an almost motherly glint to her eye and Emma groans.

"Worth a shot," Emma mutters. She jams her hands into her pockets, handsaw around one of her wrist like some sort of obscene, pointy bracelet. "Yeah," she adds. "She was there until I woke up, about two or so. And then she got all pissy that I was out on the ocean in that weather and stormed off in a huff because I told her I wasn't going anywhere."

"Huh," Mary Margaret shakes her head. Her white coat is streaked with mud that Emma's not sure even Ruby's grandmother could get out, but she doesn't seem to care. She's here to help in whatever way she can. There are reports on the radio now that the entire coast from here to DC is decimated. They've just got some minor flooding and a ton of downed trees; it could be a whole hell of a lot worse.

Picking at a leaf from the downed tree beside them, Mary Margaret sighs. "This is all because of Daniel, you know."

"I know," Emma agrees. She's not stupid, and knows that Regina has really good reason to want Emma as far away from the water as possible. Still, her hot and cold personality regarding Emma is enough to make Emma want to scream. She shouldn't have driven home in that storm, Emma knows it. "I just... I hate that I have to be in the shadow of him. I've always been there, and it's a shit place to be."

Mary Margaret pulls Emma into a one-armed hug, their wood cutting tools held carefully away from their bodies. She smells like the ocean and of pine. Clean and nice and comforting. Mary Margaret's been a constant in Emma's life for longer than she cares to think, no matter their age difference. "Maybe it'll just take some time? You left really abruptly back then. Maybe this is the price that you have to pay for that."

Emma shrugs. "Who knows?"

They spend the rest of the day working to clear the third tree. The power is back on for some of the town and the diner has had to cook through a lot of their perishables as their refrigerator had been off for most of the night. Emma sits next to Jim and Kathryn and they eat homemade mac and cheese. Her nose is still running like a sieve and Emma's trying to ignore the nagging sense of fear that's lingering in the back of her mind that tells her that she really should have stayed indoors today. She can't afford to get sick.

It's only when she starts sneezing and can't stop that Mary Margaret bustles her home and practically pours tea down her throat until her breathing is relatively clear. "I don't want you getting pneumonia," Mary Margaret grumbles, handing Emma a bottle of cold medicine and pointing her in the general direction of her bed.

Emma sniffs in response and heads for the stairs, half-stumbling up them and finally falling onto her sun-bleached hand-me-down sheets. They were in Leo's guestroom before they'd been gifted to her. The bed was Mary Margaret's when she was younger, and it'd been given to Emma without so much as a second through. Everyone is showing her so much kindness and Emma doesn't know how to handle it all. She's trying to earn her keep, working with Killian, helping Mary Margaret grade tests and homework assignments at night. Soon she's going to be helping Leo too. It's like penance for a mistake that is not wholly her own. Emma sniffs and rubs her nose. She probably is getting sick, but she hates not being able to help.

When sleep finally claims her exhausted body, Emma dreams of the mirror-calm lake once more. She doesn't dare move for fear she'll make a ripple and ruin the serenity of this place.

She's eleven and she wants to die. She's twenty eight and she finally has something she wants to fight for. The dichotomy is not lost on her even in sleep.

Emma opens her eyes and stares at the single deer that's tentatively standing at the water's edge. Its eyes are wide and fearful even now, and Emma's body goes still. The water is a glassy sheet, reflecting the sky up above and the fear in the deer's eyes.

She doesn't see the hunter until it's too late. An arrow pierces through the animal's side and Emma lets out a shocked cry. A quiet ringing fills the silence of this beautiful place and Emma, fumbling in her half-awake state, tries to find her phone. "Hello," she slurs into the phone. She's still half-asleep, her mind isn't fully processing.

"I need to talk to you, come let me in," The request is curt and to the point. Emma blinks sleepily at the clock on the top of her bedside table and realizes that its eleven thirty on a Wednesday and she has better things to be doing than sleeping the day away. Her head feels like there's molasses stuffed into her ears and every time she moves her jaw her ears pop almost painfully.

She stumbles down the stairs and pads across the ice-cold floor. She'd been right, once it got cold; it was going to be an absolute bitch to heat this place. She opens the door and comes face to face with a rather distraught-looking Regina. Emma sniffs loudly, her head feeling clogged and foggy. "Hi," she says. Her voice sounds hoarse and disused, but she knows that she should sound better than this.

"My mother is coming," Regina says as she pushes past Emma and into the apartment. Her face is a contorted mixture of fear and worry and the dark circles under her eyes that Emma remembers from what feels like days ago now are more pronounced than ever.

Emma stands in the doorway, her heart pounding in her chest as she desperately tries to will her brain to _think _and to think faster. Regina's crossed the room and has her hands resting on the countertop over the sink. Her hands are shaking and her breath is coming in short, fearful gasps. Emma pushes the door closed, locking it and reaching for her slippers. She tugs them on with hesitant hands and turns to face Regina. "Why?" she asks.

"Why?" Regina demands. She turns to face Emma, her eyes flashing danger and fear all in one desperate push of emotion. Emma takes one step forward, but then falters. "She's a _senator_, Emma. She took over my father's seat when she married him in all but name and now one of the best pieces of political capital that she's stumbled upon in _years_ has happened to her hometown." Regina glances down at her hands, her chest heaving underneath her jacket and that same blood red scarf from before. "She's coming here because it will win her support in Washington."

_But it's Maine_, Emma's brain wants to protest. Maine is a tiny state with no political clout what so ever. Everyone knows that. That's part of the problem with being from New England, your vote (if you, unlike Emma, can actually vote) doesn't mean much if you're voting into a sure thing. Emma takes another step forward into the kitchen and reaches for the kettle. It's heavy, clearly mostly full. Mary Margaret must have made tea this morning.

The burner clicks on and Emma turns to face Regina. "New York, New Jersey, they were hit way worse than here, if the radio's to be believed," she points out. She takes a deep breath, worried that what she's about to say is going to sound cold. "Won't people think she's taking advantage of the situation?"

"Probably," Regina says. Her hands are shaking and Emma reaches for them, her fingers closing around icy and numb ones. Her head feels a little clearer now and she meets Regina's eyes steadily. "She's coming _here_."

"You're an adult," Emma says quietly. She's overstepping, but she's desperate. She has to find way to say this that will get through to Regina. There's got to be way that will tell her that all this panic is entirely unnecessary. "You're not a kid. She can't…"

"Don't-" Regina wrenches her hand away from Emma and wraps it herself, squeezing her arm tightly. Emma wonders if she's using the pain of that gesture to keep herself grounded. She hopes not. "Don't say it." Emma opens her mouth to protest, but Regina just shakes her head. "You know as well as I do what she did, what she _does._ I want nothing to do with it, but I have no choice. Henry has no choice. You can still escape this."

"How?" Emma demands. "How can I escape this when I'm stuck here? I don't know if you've noticed Regina, but I'm broke. I have no car and no friends outside of this town!" Regina looks away and Emma starts again, desperate to say everything she means to say. Her head aches as she speaks, but she doesn't care. It has to be said. "I fell into the ocean two days ago, Regina. I'm no better than anyone else who's here. I'm one of you. One of us. This town is in my blood as it's in yours."

"You can leave, Emma," Regina hisses. Her nostrils flare dangerously, and Emma takes half a step back. She looks so much like her mother in that moment that Emma wants to turn and run. To feel the feeling of powerlessness and terror that wells up within her. It's ingrained, settled from when she was very young, and then again when she understood far too well. Emma hates it, hates what Regina has so easily become. "You've always been able to leave."

The kettle whistles and Emma reaches for clean mugs from the dish rack beside the sink. She doesn't respond, not at first. She doesn't really know how to respond to what Regina's accusing her of, because it's never been her choice to leave, not truly. It's always the same person, pushing her away before Emma can truly know the one thing in this town that's truly worth knowing.

"I never wanted…" The teabag in Emma's hand falls uselessly to the floor, its string fluttering as it falls to the floor like some sort of obscene tail. "Never."

"Everyone always leaves," Regina mutters to herself. She's got both her arms wrapped around herself now and she seems to be almost shaking. Emma wants to reach for her, but instead bends and picks up the teabag. She brushes past Regina to run it under the sink, cold water, before dropping it, unceremoniously into her mug. "She's the only one who comes back."

"I did too," Emma replies. She knows it sounds sad, pathetic even. She's just trying to make Regina see that this isn't a wholly bad thing. That maybe, just maybe, this is what they both need. Emma bites her lip and pours the tea. She doesn't know what to say to Regina that will make this better. There are so many words that swim before her in her mind's eye, but none of them seem _enough._ She's floundering.

Regina's smile is full of heart break and pain, and Emma cannot stand it any longer. She shoves the kettle back into the now-cold burner and crosses to pull Regina into a hug. She doesn't know why she does it, or what prompts the need to physically express everything that she cannot say in person. She's never really understood the need for contact. Hugs get you hit, smiles get you slapped. It's not worth it, she's learned, to put herself out there like that.

And yet, as always, it's different with Regina. Regina is the one thing in Emma's life that Emma's okay with not making sense. She knows that she hasn't earned her right to be easy, not yet. That will come later, when Emma's had more time to prove herself – to prove her worth.

She's warm, her head is stuffed full of wooly incomprehension. Regina kisses her without care that she is sick, warm and sweet against Mary Margaret's kitchen island. Emma holds her close and tries to use her lips to say everything that she can't articulate.

She's _here_, she's not going anywhere.

They'll figure this out.

They have to.

_"And she wonders where these dreams go_

_Cuz the world got in her way_

_What's the point of ever trying?_

_Nothing's changing anyway"_

-Goo Goo Dolls

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Soundtrack is here: [/]anamatics[/]the-return-ost or search 'the return ost' on 8 tracks.


	9. Chapter 9

**The Return**

_a fanfic by anamatics_

* * *

**Chapter Eight – Mother (7-8 November, 2012)**

_"She…_

_She screams in silence_

_A sullen riot penetrating through her mind_

_Waiting for a sign_

_To smash the silence with the brick of self-control."_

- Green Day

It takes Emma close to a week to get over her cold. She spends the weekend helping the town's elderly residents rake leaves as the temperature is in the sixties and Mary Margaret's deemed it okay for her to go outside. She spends the days sniffling and glaring at anyone who comes at her with cold medicine and tea.

Killian comes by on Monday, announcing that he's successfully dry docked the boat for the winter and that he's officially unemployed for the winter. Emma raises an eyebrow at him and he adds that he's going to be helping out 'that odd Australian' at the library with some youth programs. She smiles, knowing that Killian's always been really good with kids. "Better than collecting disability?"

"Oh, definitely," Killian agrees. He's brought over a gallon of cider from somewhere, pressed into an old milk jug. Emma has found mulling spices in the back of Mary Margaret's pantry and they're sitting on the foundry's fire escape, drinking steaming mugs of the stuff and watching the sun set over the harbor. Off in the distance, the foghorn off of Swan Island sounds and Emma has to shake herself to ward off the shiver that runs up her spine.

They sit in silence for a long time, Emma chewing on her lip and staring out at the setting sun. There are so many things that Emma wants to ask Killian about what had happened when she left this place the first time. Everything is so different now, and yet it is all the same.

"So the senator's coming back?" Killian asks. Steam is curling around his head, twin horns of the devil he is. Emma scowls at him and he wiggles his eyebrows, "And a little birdy told me that it was you our fearless leader came running to when she found out."

Emma picks a bit of clove out of her cider and flicks it out over the parking lot below her. She doesn't understand why, but it is true. "She did," Emma replies. "Don't know why though."

When they were kids, there had been a potential for them to be closer, but Emma'd never let herself grow attached. There was the threat, and then the knowledge that Dan was always there, and he would always come first. Emma remembers hating it, she took her emotions out on the court then, playing physical. She'd wanted to start fights back then, to rage against the situation she'd found herself in.

It had been two summers. Just two perfect summers of easy, non-judgmental friendship.

The dark circles under Killian's eyes make his eyes look comically wide as he reaches forward and hooks his prosthetic around Emma's arm and turns her to face him. "Are you stupid?" he demands. There's something about the way that he's asking that makes Emma wonder why he cares so much. She's never meant that much to anyone, she's known that since her eleventh birthday. No one cares if she's there or not, and she could slip away underneath the water and no one would be any the wiser. Time doesn't change things like that.

"No?" Emma ventures with an eyebrow raised. Killain's hook is biting into her arm and the pain is a welcome reminder that she is still alive after her best efforts not to be.

He sets his mug down and unhooks himself from her arm, his solitary hand coming to rest on her cheek. His nails are chipped and broken, gnarled with the sea. Emma wants to flinch away from his touch, because she's been touched like this before, and it hadn't worked out well for her that time. "Emma," Killian says seriously. "Why do you sell yourself so short?"

Emma has no answer for him.

"Regina came to you because you are the one person who knows everything about the circumstances of her childhood, because you experienced them too. She came to you because she fell in love with you when she was twenty-two and engaged to marry another. She came to you because you came back and you haven't left." Killian's eyes flicker downwards and he leans in close to add, "And because she is still in love with you, despite her best efforts to push you away."

Her blood runs cold, no one has ever loved her. Emma knows this. Love is a luxury children like her do not deserve. It's a weakness to her now, something that she cannot ever have. Not after she risked it all with Neal and got her heart dashed upon the concrete floor of the Oregon women's correctional facility.

Sipping her cider is easier than trying to answer Killian's accusing stare. Emma raises the mug to her lips and hears the fog horn ring once more. The cider is cooling now, still spicy against her tongue, but cool enough that she can taste the apples and not just the heat of the drink. She inhales quietly and shakes her head. her hair is spilling down like straw in a field against her black sweater. "She can't be in love with me," she laughs. The smile falls from her face when she sees the look on Killian's face. It's a betrayal and the truth in one anguished look. "She can't be..."

Killian picks up his mug and stares at the home-done glaze job on it, tilting it this way and that in the growing evening. "I think that you'd be surprised what people truly feel for you, Emma." He doesn't meet her eyes when he adds, "You were never taught to love yourself in all those homes, and it's not really your fault."

"I was thrown away like trash," Emma retorts. "Over and over again. Your dad, at least, had the good grace to tell me why I had to go - because he was spiraling into a depression he was never going to come out of." She shakes her head, an unhappy little laugh bubbling out of her throat. "Don't you dare tell me that Regina Mills is in love with me. She was never in love with me before." She looks away, out across the harbor. "Love is a weakness people like us are not allowed to have."

"But you can't deny that you hold meaning to her," Killian retorts. His tone is quietly questioning. It's not threatening or combative. This is just a conversation. Emma can do conversations. "Because she obviously cares for you still."

"I guess," Emma says. She shrugs and goes back to her cider. She wants to change the subject, because thinking about how she'd purposefully looked past something for this long is making her head hurt. She doesn't know how to process such information. She's gotten so good at ignoring it up until this point.

"Also, I think she taught you chemistry in more than one sense of the word," Killian laughs, wiggling his eyebrows lewdly. Emma shoves him playfully and he yelps, holding his mug out before him and desperately trying to keep it from sloshing all over his black jeans.

Killian is another that she's ignored. He obviously cares for her a great deal, even now when she's ignored him at the lowest point in his life. Emma hates that she's so broke that she doesn't see these things.

Emma hates a lot of things.

And in the growing night, she leans back against Killian, wiggling into his warmth and is grateful that he's quit smoking. He smells like the sea and cider now. It's a comforting sort of a smell, and Emma's going to need all the comfort she can get, if she's going to deal with the aftermath of Regina's mother coming to town.

Killian leaves after dinner and Emma waits until she's sure that Mary Margaret doesn't need her help grading papers to slip on her coat and slink off into the night. She's wanted a walk ever since Killian's departure, and had found that making small talk with Mary Margaret while her feet were itching to move simply didn't work.

Fear bubbles from an unbidden well within her with every second that counts down the arrival of the good senator. Emma's still torn as to what she wants to do. If she wants to stay out of sight or try and be there for Regina. Both are terrible options, when she thinks about it.

Practice starts in earnest tomorrow after school, and Leo's dropped off tape of the team from last year that she's planning to watch in the morning. Emma's nervous about that, and she's not sure if she can take being around Leo and his judgmental stares for as long as the lifeline he's thrown her lasts. She'd taken the position for the money, and for the chance to prove to him that she isn't the fuck-up he thinks her to be.

_Just another dead end girl from a dead end town_. Emma moodily kicks a rock through the scattered leaves that cover the sidewalk. She's got her hands jammed into her jacket pocket, wandering unabated down Main Street. It's cold, but the wind hasn't turned bitter yet. Emma knows that that's coming, that it'll be the worst time of the year when it gets to be that cold. In a sense, they're lucky that the storm came when it did. The end of October and the beginning of November are always a crapshoot, the weather oscillating between pleasant and fucking freezing at the drop of a hat.

It isn't until Emma finds herself standing at the base of the hill going up towards Mifflin Street that she lets herself think about Regina. Killian had had a point earlier, one that Emma had been forcing herself to ignore for so long that its second nature to her.

Maybe it hadn't been enough to be attracted to Regina, maybe it had just been what she'd refused to see. It'd been right in front of her all that time. Killian had joked that she'd filled Regina with confusion, but Emma had never been confused. She'd known full well that she could never have Regina. That was Dan's place, no matter the consequences.

Now though, now she could have what she'd denied herself for so long. She'd promised herself, sworn up and down that they hadn't been close because it'd been easier than feeling that pain all over again. To know, to know full well and to go in anyway, that was Emma's way.

It still is, Emma realizes, picking her way through the remaining storm debris and scattered leaves from the half-starved trees overhead. Soon there would be no leaves in the trees, and they would be bare, skeletons until spring.

The white house at the top of the hill is mostly dark, but there is a light on in the room that Emma tries not to think of. She's not entirely sure that she can go into this house without going back to that day, the day that she'd been taken away once more. Those marks had never shown, but they'd been there, clear as day. No one had ever known. Emma'd kept her mouth shut and her head down, shunted from house to house within this town, finally resting at Killian's father's, and then at Leo's in high school.

Emma swallows, standing on the sidewalk and looking up at the house. Henry is in there, probably laying awake and thinking about what's about to happen. He's a smart kid, he probably has at least picked up on the fact that his mom and grandmother don't get on very well.

There's a light on in what was once the den. Emma wonders if Regina's there, sitting by herself, staring off into nothingness like Emma remembers from when they were children.

The latch on the gate goes up soundlessly, and Emma pushes it open, one foot tentatively stepping onto the walk. The yard is the same, the rose bushes are bigger, shuttered to protect against snow falling from the roof already. Emma wonders how Regina's apple tree out in the back yard is doing.

It takes no time at all and she's at the steps to the house, standing awkwardly at the base of them and wondering, not for the first time, fi this is a good idea. She wants to offer support, to see if maybe Killian's right and Regina truly does care. Her tongue feels like sandpaper in her mouth and Emma hates that she cannot find the words to say hello, to ask what she has to ask.

The door opens, and Regina is standing there in bare feet and with an oversized sweater that Emma is sure used to be Dan's draped over her shoulders. She wants to step back, to recoil away, knowing that Regina's turned to a dead love for comfort.

"What are you doing here?" Regina's voice is wary, but also full of the weariness of the weight of the world. Emma's seen the hours she's worked, that they've all worked, trying to clean up the town and waiting for the waters over the bridge to recede enough for the power companies to get across and fix the outages that dot their semi-island.

Emma stands with her hands shoved into her jacket pockets, twisting the quarter that she's found there over and over between her fingers. It's a nervous habit, but not one that she thinks she can break easily. "I um... I thought you might want some company."

The gaze that Regina fixes her with is curious, relief and revulsion all rolled up into one. Emma knows that Regina hates to rely on anyone and that asking for the help that Emma's offering is next to impossible for her. She has to give it freely, or else it won't be taken at all. "Come in," Regina says at length.

Emma climbs the three steps in one, coming to stand in the doorway before Regina, her breath fogging in the light from the foyer inside. "Hi," she says, but she does not lean in to kiss her. Kissing is easy, it's about forgetting and not dealing with emotions.

This is about being supportive. Emma reaches out a tentative hand and rests it on Regina's arm. She looks so small, lost in the sweater that obviously isn't her's, and her arm is shaking as Emma touches it. "Hello, Ms. Swan," Regina replies smoothly, a smile flickering across her eyes, but not her lips. "Why have you come to darken my doorway?"

They step inside and Regina pushes the door shut, closing it and locking it in one fluid motion. Emma leans forward then, her lips brushing against Regina's and her fingers lingering on Regina's arm. There's warmth there, and the faintest hint of wine on Regina's breath. "I came because I know what dread feels like."

"Do you now," her breath is a whisper against Emma's, and her fingers are pulling at the zipper on Emma's jacket, tugging it slowly down and open, letting in the warmth of the house. "And you thought I might want what, a shoulder to cry on?" She pushes Emma's coat off of her shoulders and backs away, her expression unreadable. Emma stands there in her tattered old sweater and boots, watching as Regina hangs her coat in the closet.

"Maybe just someone to stay with you tonight, to make sure that you get some sleep?" Emma ventures.

"Are you propositioning me?" Regina demands, but her expression is not unkind. "Because it will take far more than a few kisses to get me to bed."

They both know that already, though.

Emma shakes her head. "Not like that," she answers. "I just... I thought that maybe you'd actually get some rest," she steps forward and traces her finger over the dark circles under Regina's eye. "Since you're obviously not getting any now."

Regina's lips part. She moves to speak, but her eyes flash dangerously and they close once more. Emma pulls her hand away, not wanting to poke her in the eye and takes half a step back. She's pretty good at interpreting a screaming demand for personal space.

She glances around her, at the starkly black and white foyer. When she'd lived here as a child it had all been warm reds and hard wood. Emma likes it more now, she thinks, the blankness of the walls make the place somehow seem cleaner, like the secrets hidden here have been brought out into the light and expunged.

"What are we doing, Emma?" The question is quiet, full of fear.

Emma bites her lip and turns to look at Regina. "Trying again," she offers, like it's all the explanation that's needed.

Regina wraps her arms around herself, the over-long sleeves of the sweater falling over her hands and masking her fingers. She wraps herself in the straight-jacket of a dead lover's warmth and sighs. "I don't know if I can do this," Regina confesses and it's then that Emma knows. She knows with more certainty than she's known anything. This is what she wants, and she'll fight for it, no matter what the cost.

She stands tall, looking defiantly into the worry that she's not worthy of what's being so hesitatingly offered to her. "That's okay," she promises, and there's a smile ghosting across her lips. "I know that I... I should have said goodbye. That I should have fought for you."

"You're not supposed to fall in love with two people at the same time, you know?" Regina gives a little laugh and Emma feels her heart break. "My mother liked to say that love was a luxury that couldn't be afforded, but I felt it so strongly that my heart was full to burst."

Emma sighs and shoves her hands back into her pockets. She wants to pick at something to distract herself from how this conversation is going and the only thing available is a thread that's pulling out of her cheap t-shirt. She doesn't want to lose the hem due to her nervous habits, so she puts her hands in her pockets and leaves them there. "I'm sorry I confused you so much," she offers. It's all she can say, because she won't apologize for anything else.

Shaking her head, Regina glances down at her feet. She's standing awkwardly in the middle of her foyer, barefoot in an oversized sweater. "You know," she says, "I spent so long trying to convince myself that I hated you that I think I forgot everything else about you." She looks up then, bangs falling into her eyes and a pleasant smile dancing at her lips.

"I had myself just about convinced that you didn't matter," Emma replies. "That we were never all that close."

Regina steps forward, fingers playing at the hem of Emma's tatty sweater. "Oh, I think that you will find that I want to be much _closer_ to you now, my dear." Her fingers are hot when they dip underneath the thin material of Emma's sweater and t-shirt to press against her stomach. Emma swallows and keeps her hands in her pockets. She can barely think straight with Regina's hand on her skin. Her mind is flashing through scenarios that would end in getting her laid, she wants to shove Regina up against a wall and make her feel everything that Emma's always wanted her to feel. "Wouldn't you agree?"

Desperate to push the lump that's welled up in her throat down so she can speak; Emma tries to keep her mind on the present and not with her libido. Sleeping with Regina when they're both so emotionally vulnerable would be a bad idea. "Yes," she breathes, leaning forward, her lips just next to Regina's ear. She's not sure how to say that she wants to wait until Regina's mother is gone and they can actually be themselves around each other. "But not tonight," Regina pulls back and looks at Emma harshly, hurt welling up in her eyes. Emma quickly adds, "I don't want to rush this because we're going through a bad time mentally."

Contemplating this for a minute, Regina chews on her lip in a gesture that settles between Emma's legs and pools in the heat that's already there. She lets out a shaky breath, trying to will herself calm once more. "Okay." Regina reaches out and tugs Emma's hand out from where she's shoved it into her pocket. There are no more words, just Regina leading Emma up the stairs and down the hall to the room that's always been Regina's.

There's fear, there's always fear. No matter what Emma does she's fueled by fear and anxiety. She doesn't want to be chucked out like before. She wants this to mean something and to matter.

"What side," she asks Regina, who simply points to the side opposite the door.

"You'll have to be out early, my mother is arriving at seven," Regina says, her gaze turning dark as she stares at the clock. "She wants to take Henry to breakfast before school."

Emma finds herself staring up at the ceiling some twenty minutes later, thinking about the lake again. She'd slipped under the surface of it so easily then, back when nothing had mattered in the big scheme of things. Now she realizes how foolish it had been.

Regina rolls closer, her back pressing up against Emma's side and Emma cautiously throws an arm over her, pulling her tight and finally letting sleep claim her.

And she does not dream.

Emma gets home the next morning at six fifty, early enough to find Mary Margaret out of the shower and bustling around the kitchen. Emma pretends that she doesn't notice her at first, but when Mary Margaret heads for the door at exactly seven, she sticks her head out of her doorway and calls, "Might want to avoid the diner this morning."

"Who said I was going to the diner?" Mary Margaret asks nervously as she pulls on her hat.

Sleepily, Emma pads over to the top of the stairs, tugging a blanket around herself against the morning chill. "Regina told me that her mother was taking Henry to breakfast before school. Probably not a good idea to have a senator seeing you with a not-quite-divorced man."

Killian had mentioned how close Mary Margaret and David Nolan were growing the other day, and ever since, Emma hasn't been able to not see it. It's everywhere, the way she smiles at texts or the way that she disappears off every morning right about the time that the night shift at the sheriff's department ends. David's getting dinner, Mary Margaret's getting coffee and a muffin. They're not dates, but they could be and Emma's trying not to get judgy.

Mary Margaret throws back her head and laughs. "I doubt she even knows who I am," she replies breezily. "But you're welcome to come along if you want to make it look less date-like – which it isn't." she stresses the last word, but Emma just rolls her eyes and grins at her.

Emma glances back towards the warmth of her bed and her discarded jeans and sweater. She scoops them up and shoves them into her hamper, selecting a longer shirt and some leggings from the pile of clean laundry that Mary Margaret had left on her bed sometime after she'd disappeared off to Regina's last night. She tugs them on over the thick, wooly socks she's got on now and pulls the shirt over her head.

Mary Margaret humors her as she tugs on her jacket and braids her hair quickly into a lose plait so that it's out of her eyes. She wants to look different, just in case she does see the good senator. Emma doesn't think that the woman would risk the bad press of denying Ruby's grandmother of a Thursday morning's business to close the restaurant to all but her family.

"Are you really okay with my coming?" Emma asks, because for all that this is a not-date, it's still a meeting of two people who probably like each other. "I mean... I don't mind not going."

"You want to keep an eye on the mayor," Mary Margaret laughs and claps Emma on her shoulder. Her fingers are warm and comforting through Emma's thin jacket. "Don't think I don't know where you were last night."

Emma's cheeks burn but she refuses to dignify such teasing with a response. She trails after Mary Margaret, her shitty pay-as-you-go phone burning a hole in her pocket. She desperately wants to text Regina, to offer reassurances and kind words, but she knows that they'll fall onto the same deaf ears that she'd witnessed this morning.

Granny's is quiet for the hour. Emma slides into the booth across from David Nolan and smiles at him pleasantly as Mary Margaret elbows her from her place at the edge. Emma's grateful for the Mary Margaret-shaped shield that allows her to glance around the rest of the diner, eyes desperately searching for Regina and the rest of her family.

"Emma thought she'd join us today," Mary Margaret is saying, flipping open the menu and smiling pleasantly at David. "As this is _just_ a friendly breakfast." She puts more emphasis on the qualifier than is strictly necessary, only adding to the overwhelming feeling of triumph that Emma feels, watching the pair of them. This might not be a date, but it's getting damn close.

"Uh huh," Emma says with a roll of her eyes. David snorts into his coffee cup and winks at her. He looks like he hasn't slept in a week, and Emma's sure she doesn't look much better. She doesn't sleep well in new places, not at first, anyway.

Ruby ambles up a few minutes later, pad in hand. She's wearing obscenely short shorts for the forty degree weather outside and she's got her hip cocked in such a way that means she's putting on a show for someone behind her. Emma's been a waitress; she knows what one looks like when they're trying to get laid. "Coffee, cocoa?" she asks, pointing at Mary Margaret and then Emma in turn.

"Actually, just coffee for me today, Rubes," Emma replies smoothly. She's sure she looks like death warmed over and she doesn't want to hear what Leo's sure to say about it. She needs to be awake and alert for the first practice that she's assisting.

"Gotcha," Ruby replies and spins on her toes, pausing to check on Mr. Spencer and his wife behind their booth before heading towards the kitchen. Emma glances over to see only Killian's friend the librarian, absorbed in a book, where Ruby was standing, and her eyebrows shoot up. She doesn't say anything though, as it seems that this attempt had gone largely unnoticed.

The chime on the door rings and Emma's eyes slide over to the door, where Regina and Henry are standing behind the imposing form of Cora Mills, US Senator. Emma's eyes open seemingly wider, her mind flashing backwards, tumbling really, to a time before. She'd been a child then, young and innocent. They'd all been younger then.

"Welcome," Ruby calls from behind the counter. "I'll be with you in just a sec."

"That woman will always look imposing," Mary Margaret mutters under her breath and David cracks a smile behind his coffee cup.

Emma bites her lip as Ruby sweeps in, two mugs in her hands and deposits them on the table. "There you are. I'll be back in a minute to get your orders."

"Take your time," Mary Margaret replies. Emma can see the stiffness in her shoulders underneath the bulky sweater she's wearing. It's not a natural look on her. Mary Margaret is at home with herself, no matter who she's around. She supposes that this is the one woman who would push that quiet self-assurance away to reveal all of Mary Margaret's insecurities. She has a knack at doing just that.

Emma chews on her lip and watches as Ruby seats Regina and her family. Henry catches her eye and his eyes widen before he turns his attention back to his grandmother. They're sitting close enough that Emma can overhear their conversation over the quiet murmuring of David and Mary Margaret. Ruby comes back and Emma mumbles out a request for toast and eggs as they're cheap and filling, her attention not really leaving her eavesdropping.

"And how are his extra-curriculars, Regina, you know it's never too early to start thinking about preparatory schools," the senator is saying and Emma's eyes narrow.

"I'd rather keep Henry with me for the time being," Regina replies tersely. "He's doing very well, considering."

"Yes, considering," the senator replies stiffly. She glances around the diner before leaning in further, her voice dropping to the point where Emma could barely hear it over the din and Ruby's not-so-subtle flirting attempts with the librarian in the corner. "I received a rather interesting email from Mr. Glass a few weeks ago. It seems that Storybrooke's greatest failure has returned to town."

Hot, white, anger rises up inside Emma and there's a ringing in her ears that no amount of shaking her head seems to clear it. She reaches blindly for her coffee and takes a gulp of the steaming liquid, forcing herself to swallow even though it burns her throat.

"I wouldn't know," Regina shrugs and meets her mother's gaze evenly. Emma wonders when Regina gotten to be such a good liar. "Things have been hectic here lately."

The senator inclines her head, tapping her chin thoughtfully as Ruby returns with mugs of coffee and cocoa for Henry. Henry is steadfastly ignoring Emma and Mary Margaret now, focusing on his cocoa and the conversation between his mother and grandmother. "Then I needn't stress to you that getting involved with that woman would be your ruin, right dear?"

"Quite," Regina says and Emma can see the muscle in her jaw clench. She's probably saying it through gritted teeth and with her hand clenched into a fist in her lap.

Their food comes and Emma munches on toast and eggs, trying not to listen in to the conversation at the table just to her left. She doesn't want to say anything, but when Mary Margaret rises some ten minutes later and pulls Emma up with her right after Regina and Henry's pancakes are brought out from the kitchen she's just a little startled. "I have to get to school, Em," she says with a guilty look on her face. "I got your breakfast."

"Uh... thanks," Emma says, but it's what's happening behind her as Mary Margaret heads up to the till to pay for their order. She can hear the conversation between the senator and Henry about his soccer team quiet and she can actually feel the woman's eyes on her, calculating and predatory, as she straightens her scarf and offers her hand to David. "Good to see you," she says.

"You too," he says, munching on his hamburger and dipping a fry into the left over syrup on Mary Margaret's plate. _Gross_, Emma wrinkles her nose and tries not to lose her breakfast all over him. "You doing that thing with Killian this weekend?"

"Maybe," Emma says because she honestly hasn't thought about it yet. She knows that she should consider the sheriff's department's offer of some good karma points with Killian and go up to remark the hiking trails, but she hasn't been able to see past today since last week. She'll cross that bridge when she comes to it. "I'll let you know."

"Okay," David pops his gross-ass fry into his mouth and his eyes flutter closed. "Delicious."

"You're nasty," Emma replies, sticking her tongue out at him. "See you around, David."

He waves his burger at her, obviously overtired from being up all night, and Emma takes a deep breath and turns around. She knows what she's expecting, the expectant and angry eyes of Cora Mills, looking at her as though she's dirt. Somehow, though, the expectation always pales in relation to the reality.

The senator is looking at her with a mixture of surprise and unadulterated loathing. She's glaring openly and Emma shifts uncomfortably under her gaze. "Morning Henry," Emma hedges, placing her hopes in the kid and tussling his hair as she walks by him. "Madam Mayor, Senator." She nods and makes a bee-line to the door, following Mary Margaret and letting the door bang shut behind her.

Mary Margaret glances towards the door when Emma rounds the gate in front of the diner. "You're either brave or foolish, I can't decide."

"That makes two of us," Emma replies with a bravado she doesn't feel. She feels like a coward for bolting, but she doesn't know what else she could have done or said. She's one of the last people that the good senator probably wants to be seen with, horrible woman that she is.

It's easy to linger, to watch Mary Margaret hurry down the road towards the elementary school and wonder if she should go back inside and keep an eye on the situation there. She's got time before she has to start her tape review, anyway.

Emma wraps her arms around herself and leans against the wall of the building next to the diner, watching for a few moments before she finally decides to go back home. There's nothing she can do for Regina now, she knows that. It's probably better to stay away.

The bell rings and Emma turns to glances towards the door, surprised to see the senator by herself, reaching into her purse and pulling out a packet of Virginia Slims and lighting one expertly. She glances around before taking a drag and Emma jams her hands into her pockets and moves to walk away.

"Ms. Swan," the senator calls. She's exhaling smoke from her nose like some sort of terrifying nightmare from Emma's childhood. It curls around her head and lingers, casting her into shadow and secrets. "A word?"

Emma doesn't want to talk to her, but she turns anyway, knowing that it's probably better to have this conversation now, rather than have things go unsaid. She's going to get warned away from Regina, away from this town and everything else.

"Mrs. Mills," Emma tries to sound as polite as she can possibly fake. She puts on what she hopes is a pleasant smile, and knows that it looks about as fake as the one she receives in response. "I'm surprised they haven't got you traveling with secret service."

"I left them in Bangor, I have to head up to Augusta in the afternoon," the senator replies airily. "I didn't think I would find use for them here. Imagine my surprise." Emma stares at her, shock coloring her features, but the senator waves her off. She flicks her cigarette ash onto the ground and adds. "Come now, dear, you don't honestly expect me to allow criminals to roam free in my home town, being friendly with my grandson, do you?"

"I think that's his mother's call," Emma replies. Her jaw is clenched so tightly that she can barely speak around her gritted teeth.

"I'd say her judgment is clearly impaired in this particular situation," the senator replies. "But know this: I will not have you carrying on with my daughter. She is going places, my daughter, and I will not have trash like you dragging her down."

Emma watches as she flicks her cigarette butt onto the wet ground, not bothering to stub it out. "Isn't that what you said about Dan?" Emma's used to verbal sparring, Regina can give just as good as she gets, but this is different. This has venom and barely veiled threats carefully hidden in it. Emma's worried that if she says the wrong thing she's gonna end up dead in a ditch somewhere. She steels herself, her jaw resolute, and adds in a serious tone, "Shame about him, I know Regina loved him dearly."

"Love is weakness," the senator replies, hitching her purse up her shoulder and turning towards the door. Emma can see Regina and Henry inside, putting on coats and heading towards the exit. Henry must have had to use the bathroom or something. "You of all people should know that."

_Yes_, Emma supposes that she should. She's had loved ripped from her over and over again and yet she keeps coming back for more, craving it like a glutton for punishment.

Still, it's not worth it to push and say anything more. "I guess I would know that better than most," she says. It takes all the courage she has to turn and walk away from the senator then. She doesn't want Regina to hear her threats, Emma's not afraid of her, she never comes home, back to this place where nothing is as it seems and everything stays the same.

"Goodbye, Ms. Swan."

Emma doesn't dignify her with a response. The woman doesn't deserve it.

_"I have only two emotions,  
Careful fear and dead devotion.  
I can't get the balance right.  
Throw my marbles in the fight.  
I see all the ones I wept for  
All the things I had it in for  
I won't cry until I hear  
Cause I was not supposed to be here."  
_  
- The National

* * *

Soundtrack is here: 8tracksdotcom [/]anamatics[/]the-return-ost (take out the dot and replace with a period) or search 'the return ost' on 8 tracks.


	10. Chapter 10

**The Return**

_a fanfic by anamatics_

* * *

**Chapter Nine – 40 Minutes of Hell (December 7, 2012)**

"My hands are tied, my body bruised  
She got me with nothing to win  
And nothing else to lose"

- U2

Emma sits on a frigid bench down by the docks, staring out over the harbor. There are no boats docked there now, and only a few skiffs tied to the portion of the dock that wasn't taken ashore to save it from the stormy winter seas. Emma can count the number of buoys that still float in the harbor on one hand right now. It's Killian's side project, supervised by Belle French (his friend from the library) every day before they go off together to start to start the youth program for the day. He sells the lobsters he catches to Sprat and Co. for a reasonable price, but the problem is that no one here eats lobster aside from those who can afford to such a luxury. They die in the store tank, more often than not.

There's a newspaper rolled up in her lap, but she's almost afraid to read it. Sidney Glass has written an article about the first game of the season today, against the school just over the bridge on the mainland. He's titled the article 'Forty Minutes of Hell' like they're Arkansas back in the day or something. Sure, Leo runs a full-court press, and the kids on the team could probably pull off something akin to that defense if Leo were to push them; but nothing like that. That was close to godly.

"Are you actually going to read it?" Henry demands from her side. He's had a half-day today due to parent-teacher conferences, and has some time before he has to drag his too-heavy backpack over to the library to help Killian out with the holiday pageant that even Emma's been roped into helping for. Henry looks down at his tightly done-up coat and picks at the fringe of his scarf. "I stole it from my mom's office for you."

Emma sincerely doubts that he did anything of the sort. She can almost picture Regina leaving the article out for him to read and can maybe even see her telling him to go run it along to his 'top secret meeting' that she totally doesn't know about. Still, she can humor Henry like the best of 'em. "Well thanks," she says. She flashes him with what she hopes is a placating smile.

After the senator's visit, Regina has been somewhat distant. Emma understands it and really does respect it. She gets that being around a woman like that cannot be a good thing. After the Thanksgiving holiday where Emma'd sat with Mary Margaret, Leo, and David Nolan of all people, Emma thinks that maybe she could get Regina to open up just a little. She wants to see her in more than passing, a fleeting smile or a touch to the cheek. The time between them has all but evaporated with the holidays and the aftermath of the storm and the senator's subsequent appearance in town.

Emma chews on her lip for a moment, the newspaper heavy in her hands. She shivers and tucks the paper under her arm. The clock tower is busted still, but a quick glance at her shitty pay-as-you-go phone tells her that she's due to meet Kathryn and then to head over to the diner were she's going to catch a ride with Leo up the school. "We gotta get going," she says, offering him her hand.

Henry's hand is small in her own. He's everything that she's never been able to be. He's a good kid with a winning smile; an athlete (even though he's not as keen on basketball as he perhaps should be) and a beloved child. A wave of jealousy surges up in Emma like a storm crest over the bulkhead. It's so overwhelming that as she gets to her feet she nearly drops Henry's hand from her own. She doesn't dare though, for he's an innocent. He has no idea.

"When are you going to come 'round again?" Henry asks as they walk past the cannery. Emma eyes the building with interest, she's never thought about applying there. The building's most dilapidated now, the boards weathered a grayish slate that almost looks like the sea-beaten rocks that form the harbor.

He's looking up at her with wide, innocent eyes and Emma can't help but wonder if she is growing too close to this child. There's so little of his father in him that Emma thinks that if she blinks she'd miss it. All she sees is Regina and the child that she'd once been, all those frowns turned into happy smiles and care-free laughs.

"I don't know," Emma confesses. She's been respecting Regina's space for a while now, wondering when it'd be right to try and get herself invited in once more. "Your mom wanted some space; I think your grandma coming freaked her out. She never comes home, right?"

Henry shakes his head. "Not even on Christmas. She likes to stay in Washington, or go see her cousins in New York. They're closer, she says, and if she needs to get back to Washington she can get back in a hurry. We Skype at Christmas sometimes, but mostly it's just me and mom," He's talking quickly as they walk up towards Main Street. The library is already coming into view and Emma almost doesn't want to let go of Henry's hand and get more information out of him about what he does at Christmas.

"Christmas can be unfun, huh kid?" Emma agrees, catching the negative tone that he's cast out so freely.

"Mom gets sad," Henry confirms with a sad sort of nod. He uses his free hand to wipe his nose and blinks up at Emma. "Maybe since you're here she won't be sad?"

Lord, Emma hopes so. They're both finally free, not without baggage, but able to start over. The senator's threat did not fall on idle ears, but Emma's resolve is true. It's as Leo's always saying, clear hearts, clear heads, can't lose. This is Emma's game, and she's got to run the next play. "Maybe," she tells Henry in a reassuring voice. "I'm going to read this before I meet up with Ms. Kathryn, okay? You should tell your mom that you want to come to the game, okay?"

Henry wrinkles his nose, "But it's far away."

Emma shrugs. "Just over the bridge," she says. "Bring your mom and your yelling voice. It's crappy opening on the road."

Henry nods and squeezes her hand. "I don't know if I can get her to come, but I'll try." He promises and Emma knows that it's made out of the same pie crust as before. Easily made and broken, like so much else in her life.

"Don't stress it," Emma says with a grin as he scampers into the library, following a girl with blonde braids poking awkwardly out from under and oversized sheepskin hat. She waits until she knows he's inside before turning on one foot and heading towards Kathryn's office.

Her case is going well, or so Kathryn thinks. She's spoken to the state's attorney that had prosecuted both her case and Neal's, explaining the situation and how Emma had returned home and was looking to actually start her life again. The guy had apparently been pretty chill about the whole thing, he'd apparently been pushing for a more lenient sentence with the judge, especially since Emma was so young when she'd gotten caught with Neal's stupid stolen watches. They were now waiting to hear back from the judge back in Oregon, to see if he'd be willing to sign off on an order to expunge or if they're going to have to have a second hearing. They'd do it in a closed court, via skype probably up in Bangor, Kathryn had explained. Emma didn't have the resources to fly across the country to speak before a judge for less than an hour.

Still, Emma's worried. She hates the idea of having to speak to that same heartless bastard who sent her away with no questions asked. She remembers the court case of that judge in Pennsylvania, the one who was getting kickbacks from the local private prison to send people away. She hopes that the judge isn't like that guy.

Kathryn's office is in one of the repurposed buildings that Emma thinks used to be a part of the cannery back in the day. It's made of brick and stands solid after storm water has pounded against it for nearly eighty years. It has a warm, almost friendly glow to it now, with warm lamps lighting the shop windows at the front that now operate on off-season hours. It's only three thirty and already two of them are closed. The bookstore is still open, a small cart of books rolled out tentatively under the awning, as if tempting the dark and murderous clouds overhead to spit rain or snow.

Emma inhales deeply, pausing in front of the large doors that open into a stairway that give way to the offices on the second floor. There's a bitter bite to the air, and the smell of salty wood smoke fills her nose. It's not quite ready to snow, but it is coming.

Pushing her way into the warmth of Kathryn's office, Emma trots up the stairs and hangs a left, heading down the hall to the frosted glass door that has Kathryn's name on it. Emma wonders if she'll ever change her name back from Nolan, or if she even wants to. She probably won't ask about that though, since it doesn't seem polite.

The door opens into a small reception area and Emma takes a seat. She unfolds the newspaper and reads Mr. Glass' article about Leo's team this year and their forty-minute full court press.

The truth is somewhere in between, really. They have a team of agile guards and forwards, and no true center to play the post. Leo had hope for a girl who'd been on the junior varsity squad last year, but her family had had to move to Boston and frankly Emma's just glad that someone got out of this town. They mesh well as a group. Two seniors, four sophomores and three juniors. They've got a good sub rotation and some of the newspaper guys who aren't Mr. Glass are picking Storybrooke to make some noise this season.

Briannan Montclair, the starting point guard, is getting some long looks from out of state schools. Emma chews on her lip and stares down at the team picture, Emma standing off to one side in a grey Storybrooke High t-shirt and sweatpants, the assistant coach.

"Emma?" Kathryn calls from behind her half-closed office door. "You out there?"

"Yeah," Emma replies. She folds up the paper and tucks it into the back pocket of her jeans, trying to ignore how it's digging into her back. She's got supplies that she left with Ruby at the diner earlier, a pair of nice slacks that still had the tags on them at the thrift store in Bangor and a blouse. She figures that she's an assistant so she won't need a blazer. Hopefully. "Should I come in?"

Kathryn appears in the door wearing an oversized and obviously hand-knit sweater over her blouse and jeans. It's a casual day at the office, Emma decides. It is a Friday, after all. "Don't bother. I haven't heard much of anything yet. Your friend Kevin out there seems to think that this probably isn't going to go anywhere until after Christmas, anyway. The judge has something like ten grandkids." She flashes Emma a sympathetic mile and crosses the room to sit next to her. "I think that we're in the clear, though," she adds.

Emma watches as she tucks a lock of hair behind her ear and can feel her sigh. She doesn't know how to thank Kathryn for all that she's done. She doesn't even know if she should be thankful. Emma is so unaccustomed to people being nice to her without wanting something in return. Kathryn has thrown herself into this case as her divorce is finalized, and is probably using it as an excuse to not get too close to Jim. He's bemoaned it to Emma over Leroy's winter beer on Killian's porch after Patriots games a few times now, but Emma'd just rolled her eyes.

"Thanks for calling him," Emma says dumbly. Fuck - she's never been good at this. Accepting help, accepting praise, it all comes so difficultly to her. She knows it's because of her childhood, because of the constant stream of faces that dance across her mind when she thinks of growing up in this town. "I know that this isn't really how you want to spend your Friday afternoon."

Kathryn shrugs. "I have three foreclosures, but there's a moratorium between now and the first, so I can't proceed on those right now. Other than that it's the usual small claims and divorce stuff, you're really the most interesting thing I'm working on right now, Em." She shakes her head after she finishes speaking and Emma finds herself grinning back at her. "I just want to help."

It's this part that's the hardest. The gratitude and the feeling completely unworthy of what is being offered to her without anything expected in return. Emma can feel her cheeks burn as she nods resolutely. "Thank you, Kathryn," she says firmly. Nudging Kathryn with her shoulder she grins. "You're a saint."

"Hardly," Kathryn laughs, but Emma can see the darkness in her eyes and knows that she's thinking of how her marriage dissolved into divorce. "Don't you have a game?" she asks, glancing at the clock on the wall over her office door.

Emma's eyes shoot up and she gets up hurriedly, zipping up her jacket and jamming the newspaper back into her pocket. "Shit, you're right." She's got five minutes to get the diner to meet Leo. "Look, do you like fudge?"

"Uh..." Kathryn trails off and then nods once. Emma grins at her and heads for the door, thinking that her brilliant Christmas plan might pan out after all. Mary Margaret's on board and Emma's already a fairly decent cook - but the discovery of a fully-copper saucepan for seven bucks at the thrift store where she got her grown-up dress pants had pretty much solidified her plan. She's making candy and she doesn't care who knows it.

"I'll see you later," Emma says and closes the door behind her. She takes the stairs three at a time going down until they start to get wet and she slows, the faux-fur of her jacket's hood tickling at the back of her neck. The diner is half a block away and Leo's car is already there, but he's not leaning against it scowling. It's a good sign, it means that he's stepped in to get a coffee and to say hello to Mrs. Lucas. Emma cuts down between the diner and the building next to it, dodging around trash cans and a few old wooden pallets. Her bag is sitting on top of the old coin-op washer in the back room of the diner. Emma scoops it up over her shoulder take pushes the door into the dining room open.

Leo is standing at the register, talking to Mrs. Lucas, a to-go cup of coffee in his hands. "Ah," he says when Emma closes the door behind her. "I see that Ms. Swan is here now, ma'am, I gotta go."

Mrs. Lucas nods and flashes a small smile that makes her usually severe face soften. She looks like someone's grandmother, rather than a fierce proprietress when she smiles. Emma likes it.

Leo doesn't say anything until they're nearly at the high school. The team is standing by the bus, backpacks at their feet and determined looks on their faces as Leo parks the old Vic and leans into the pack to pull an LL Bean canvas bag with Storybrooke's mascot printed on the side stuffed full of the playbook. "You've done a remarkable job at this, Emma," he says.

Emma gets her own bag out of the back seat, as well as the six-pack of water bottles that Leo's already got filled. "I get your system, coach."

He nods, his beard frizzing slightly in the winter air. "Let's see how you do in a game," he says it like it's a challenge and Emma takes it that way. Nothing is ever good enough for Leo. Emma sometimes finds herself thinking that he's impossible to please, not to mention a grouchy asshole when he wants to be.

Leo drives the bus and they make sure everyone's accounted for before heading off. It's four thirty now, the game is at six. Emma sits next to Jess and Briannan. They're still a little skeptical of her, everyone in Storybrooke knows her story, and Jess went so far as to accuse Emma of trying to relive her old glory.

It had been hard to explain why she was coaching, getting back into the sport that had been her ultimate downfall. She'd talked to the team one afternoon in the locker room, explaining about how she wanted to be there for them, and not for herself. "I'd take any job I could find," she'd explained, swallowing nervously as nine pairs of eyes stared her down with expectant gazes. "I can't get many of them right now and that's my fault. So when Leo offered me something, I took it. I think that that's okay."

"So do you want to be here?" Briannan had demanded, her arms folded and a scowl on her lips.

Emma'd laughed. "There was a point in time, not too long ago, when I would have told you that no, being in Storybrooke is probably the last thing on my mind, and do you want to know why? Because I always associated this place with my own shortcomings, but as I've come back here, I've realized that this place is where I am at my strongest. I have people who care for me, a team to rally behind, and a sense of purpose. I want to get you guys back to that championship game, and I think we can do it." She'd raised an eyebrow in defiance, "So are you with me?"

Jess is bemoaning an English test in the morning, and Emma's got her talking about the book they're reading. It's one that she's re-read recently, down in Raleigh, enjoying the mild winter and easy work she'd found. Emma talks about her favorite parts and they're all staring at her like she's got three heads.

"How the hell were you ever a jock?" Lisa, one of the junior forwards, demands. "You're way too into books, Swan."

Emma shrugs. She's always liked books.

The boys are playing after them, and as they drive over the bridge, Emma can see the banner welcoming them to 'dawg country'. Emma scowls at it and the rest of the team boos as they drive past.

There are already people milling around the outside of the school, and the parking lot is half full already. Emma wonders if it's because their opponent's boys' team is picked to finish first in their division, or if it's because it's the first conference game of the season. Her stomach twists into knots as she grabs her stuff and follows the team off the bus.

Emma hasn't been in a game day atmosphere in years now, and she stands with her blouse half-done up, watching as the girls grow silent around her. They're ready for anything, Emma knows it. She does up her shirt and leaves them to their pregame rituals.

Leo squeezes her shoulder comfortingly when her breath catches at the announcement of her name as assistant coach. She can see some of the older fans, the ones who've been around for a while, crane their necks to get a good look at her. She's known here; even amongst rivals, she's known. "Just ignore the crowd," Leo whispers, and gathers the team into a huddle. Emma leans in and listens to his game plan and the pledge that he's made before every game for what feels like years now. "You will win," he promises them, "So long as you play with pure hearts and play your best. Do it for Storybrooke."

The team's voice echoes the promise as one, and Emma puts on her best determined face. She's not looking into the crowd, because she knows that if she looks she'll see Henry and his mother. She'll see the girl she'd fallen in love with all those years ago - the girl she'd left behind, grown into a woman who'd known more sadness and heartbreak than anyone should have to stomach at her age. She knows that Regina can't refuse Henry anything, and that they're there, somewhere, watching.

Emma's determined to win for that alone. She pulls Jess aside and gestures to the team's starting guard, "She doesn't go left very well - she'll always drive right - you and Bri, you work that."

Jess nods and they line up, hands over their hearts and listen to some really terrible singer botch the national anthem. Emma tries not to cringe and is grateful when it's over. She stands tall and stretches her hands above her head, ready to get things started.

The game is fast and chippy for the first half. Emma watches and realizes that there is very little that she wouldn't give to suit up and get out on the court. She hates that she's stuck on the sideline, and she can see that Leo's aware. They get a break with a little under a minute left, the bulldogs have taken a time out and Leo shoves the play board into her hands. "Call the final play," he says. His eyes are dark and intense and Emma takes a deep breath and opens her mouth to protest. He silences her with a look and a glance towards the officials' table, where the head ref is checking her watch.

There's a dry erase marker at the top and Emma closes her eyes. They've been shooting the three well, but it's stupid to rely on that with the Bulldog defense. There's twenty seconds in this time out, and the play comes to mind instantly. "Bri," she says, drawing her first x, "You take the inbound, pass it over the line and then get it back. Lisa, you drive left and Jess you go sweep right down on the baseline. Marina, you stay at the top of the key and play D - Ashleigh, I want you to run with 25" - the point guard - "and make sure she doesn't get a steal. No fouls guys, we don't have any left to give."

They break with a pledge of 'teamwork' and head back onto the floor. Briannan takes the ball from the ref and moves to pass it in and Emma watches with rapt attention as the play evolves and the pieces fall into play. Jess passes to Lisa who bounces it over to a driving Briannan, and Emma whoops as their ace lays the ball up and in as the clock buzzes the end of the half. They're up by seven, but there's a whole second half to play.

Leo leads them into the locker room and points out things that Emma hadn't even noticed, laying out a sketch of a gameplan for the second half that falls into perfect pieces as they bound back onto the court. Emma risks a look into the stands now, and sees Henry Mills, a brown paper bag of concession-stand popcorn balanced on his knees, his mother half-way towards putting a piece in her mouth. He sees her looking and waves, and Regina's eyes go soft as Emma meets them, warmth pooling in the pit of her stomach.

She'll win for them.

They start their press in the second half, trapping on every play, never letting the ball get out of one Bulldog's hands easily into the next. Jess has two steals within the first three minutes off of the back-up guard and they quickly extend their lead to twelve. Emma's chewing nervously on her lip though, as Briannan and Lisa start to look tired and Ashleigh takes an inbound pass to the chest and drops it back out of bounds. Leo's beside himself, yelling at her from the sidelines, but it's almost a lost cause. The press is what's killing them, but it's getting them points and letting them win.

Briannan steps back and drains a perfect three over number twenty five's head with fifteen minutes gone in the first half. They're up big, but Leo keeps the press going. Emma wants to tell him to stop as they reach the under five minute time out, but he shakes his head. "We've got to keep them on their heels. We're better than this exhaustion, we can take 'em." He says it with such conviction that Emma can see the competitive gleam in the nine pairs of eyeballs that stare adoringly at him as he runs through a few plays on the board, shooting them out rapid-fire and then flipping the board over to show them the next.

The game ends 67-48 and it really wasn't much of a contest. Emma smiles and shakes hands at the end of the game, pausing to speak to the head coach of their opponent, telling him a little about what she's been up to since she'd been released from prison. The starkness of that phrase really gets to her, knowing that _everyone_ they play this year is going to know about her past is enough to make her stomach turn and her head hurt. She hates that her failure is so public. "I've been living like a nomad," she says with a smile, "Seeing the country, you know?"

He nods and claps her on the back. "It's good to have you back, Swan. YOu got one hell of a team this year."

Henry has fought his way down from the stands, a half-eaten bag of popcorn clutched in one hand and his coat under the other. "Emma you won!" he exclaims, launching himself at her and hugging her around the middle. Emma can see Briannan and some of the other players talking with their parents before the post-game meeting and showers. They're looking at her as she smooth's Henry's hair, a small smile on her face.

Emma doesn't care.

"Yeah kid," she says. "We did." She takes a second to explain to Henry that she'll be back in a minute, but that she has to go back into the locker room and speak to the team. He nods and trots back to where Emma can see Regina is chatting with some older-looking guy that Emma doesn't recognize. She's got her politician's smile on and Emma wonders if maybe he's on the town council or something here or in Storybrooke.

Rounding up the players and pulling them from their families is always rough. Leo's always been a bit lax about post-game locker room meetings. With most teams, it's straight there after a game, but Leo always likes to linger after the handshake. These kids have grown up twenty minutes from each other, they play on the same summer leagues, he's explained to reporters time and time again, and it's unfair to deny them a chance to socialize. They're kids – this is just a game. His stance hasn't earned him many friends, but most opposing coaches that Emma remembers from her playing days had humored his odd coaching style.

Leo stands in the locker room with his hands clasped behind his back. His face is drawn and Emma is struck for what feels like the thousandth time since she's come back, at how very old he looks. The wrinkles in his face are deep and draw shadows his serious expression. They make him look like a villain from a science fiction movie, and Emma half expects him to start breathing like Darth Vader just for the effect.

They all sit, uniforms still on, and Leo begins to speak: "That was a promising opening to the season," he begins. He rocks forward on the balls of his feet, his expression growing more serious, "However it was a sloppy press. Mr. Glass wrote an article in _The Mirror_ about you guys, and he said that you were running the Arkansas defense. What I saw out there today was not the Arkansas defense. You got tired, you let your tiredness show and they took advantage of that. We won big, and I'm proud of you for that, but we let them back into things when we started to get sloppy. Hands need to be up, eyes need to be focused. You're not tired, you're pushing through it." He folds his arms across his chest and a smile blossoms from amid his beard. "It was a wicked good show for the first conference game of the season. Congrats, ladies."

Emma claps and soon they're all joining in. Lisa whistles and Ashleigh lets out a whoop.

"Show of hands," Leo says after the applause has died down. "How many of you are staying for the men's game?" A few hands go up and Leo adds, "How many of you have guaranteed rides home? Coach Swanson has told me that this season he won't be up to giving my players rides home on his bus just because they decide to stay and cheer."

"Why can't we just ride the same bus, coach?" Jess demands. She's one of the ones who'd put her hand up. She's dating one of the boys on the team, a junior with a beat-up old Civic that usually provides ride home to a few of the girls after practice that Emma's seen. "It'd be better for the environment, I know diesel isn't cheap."

Leo shrugs. "This is the way that the school board wanted it down, guys. I can't help that it's a silly situation, but if you don't have a ride home from a parent," Jess opens her mouth to protest, but Leo continues, "or a significant other, I can't let you stay."

There's some grumbling, but everyone knows that Coach Swanson is a bit of a hard-ass and no one wants to tempt fate by asking him for a lift. Emma takes her bag and with a nod to Leo slips back out of the locker room. He'd seen the exchange between Emma and Henry, obviously. Emma feels her cheeks burn a little as Leo gives her an almost-approving nod as she brushes past him. She supposes that he approves, and she's not sure how to deal with the emotion that lurches forward inside of her. It's almost like pride, mixed with affection.

She wonders if this is what it's like to have parental approval to do something.

Regina is waiting with Henry in the school's lobby. Henry's either finished or thrown away his popcorn and is sitting with a book open in his lap, studiously doing problems while Regina messes around on her Blackberry. She looks up when she hears Emma's footsteps and smiles almost shyly. Emma finds herself smiling back.

"That was a very well-coached game, Ms. Swan," Regina says, tucking her phone back into her purse. Henry's closed his book and is tucking it back into his backpack. "Congratulations on your first conference win."

"Thanks," Emma says. She rubs at the back of her neck, not entirely sure what to say next, but knowing that she has to say _something. _She settles on a polite inquiry as to how Regina's doing after the holiday, and follows after Regina and Henry as they head out to the car. There's an unspoken agreement that Emma's going back with them. It's been there since the first time Emma'd laid eyes on them, coming out after the half.

"Holidays are hard," is all that Regina says, and the thirty minute ride to the house on Mifflin Street is passed in an uneasy silence. Emma keeps thinking of all the things she wants to say, but the words don't come. She wants to tell Regina that this is it, a final chance for them, because it's _Regina_ and not an obligation to Killian or Leo or Mary Margaret that makes her want to stay here.

Storybrooke is a place that she swore she'd never settle on, and still she finds herself wanting it. She's no politician's girl, and she's not a member of the wealthy, New England elite. She's a nobody who's held the heart of Regina Mills in her hands and felt the love that's held there.

Regina sends Henry upstairs to wash his hands and leads Emma into the kitchen. She gets down bowls and unearths a Tupperware full of what looks like chili from the refrigerator. "I'm sorry I've been avoiding you," She says and she empties the container into a saucepan on the stove and adds a little bit of water to it before turning the heat on low.

"I understand," Emma says. She shifts awkwardly from foot to foot. "Your mom's a real piece of work."

"I know," Regina sighs and hooks her ankle around one of the kitchen stools, collapsing down into it and resting her head on her chin. "She told me that I'm just looking to replace Daniel, that he's the love of my life and that I'll never love anyone like him again." She shakes her head and looks up at Emma. "I don't…" Faltering, Regina reaches for Emma's hand. Her fingers are warm and comforting, intertwining with Emma's and staying there, fitting perfectly. "I don't want to replace him. I don't think I can."

"Love is different each time," Emma says, thinking about Neal and how it had felt so different from the stolen kiss and constant fear of discovery that had colored her teenage infatuation with this woman. Loving Neal was so easy, he'd been easy in all the ways that Emma'd liked at the time. She'd looked past his faults then, and she's pretty sure she'd do it now. Great love is hard to come by.

Regina nods. "It is," she agrees. "I don't want to make you feel like I did then. He'd asked me to marry him before I had come home, before, well, before _you. _And my mother hated the idea, absolutely hated it, until she saw us that one time."

Emma cringes, thinking of that moment, under the apple tree out back and the near-kiss that had almost destroyed them both. "So we start over," she says. "I can't be Dan, and I don't want to replace him. You can't replace the asshole that I fell in love with either. We're just two people who happen to have liked each other for a long time."

The chili sizzles on the stove and Regina pushes herself up to tend to it. She brushes past Emma, a smile curling at her lips. "I think we can work with that."

_Yeah_, Emma thinks, _I can to._

_"I think I'm done nursing the patient can wait one night  
I'd give it all away if you give me one last try"_

- The Foo Fighters

* * *

Note: So hey. I love reviews and feedback of all sorts, but sometimes I get these real head-scratchers and I'm not really sure how to address them.

On this most recent chapter, someone commented and said that my story 'wasn't original enough' for them. The story is pretty original, in my estimation. I'm sorry that I kept some of the details of each character's life that I deemed vital in my story and that the inclusion of these details isn't an original choice.

Actually, you know what? I'm really not. I never billed this story as anything other than a 'non-magic au.' I have kept the character details and some of the shit from the show because I want to. I hate hate hate AUs where the characters are the characters in name and appearance (and sometimes not even that) only, at that point, I feel like I should just write an original story. I do that on occasion (and if you follow my tumblr, you'll see that I have another idea in the works presently), but no, I wanted to write a Once fanfic. So that's what I'm doing. If that's not cool with you, that's okay, but I have made original choices on this fic. A shit ton of them. So please don't say that I haven't.

Soundtrack : 8 tracks dot com anamatics/the-return-ost


	11. Chapter 11

**The Return**

_a fanfic by anamatics_

* * *

**Chapter Ten – Coach (December 23-25, 2012)**

_"Go take me for a ride__  
There's no one else but you tonight  
I can barely hear the words you say  
The way your eyes speak for themselves"_  
- We are Twin

The first snow of the season comes two days before Christmas, as Emma stands in the high school parking lot following a blow-out 85-50 victory over one of the bottom-dwellers of their conference. She stands with her bag slug over one shoulder, her hands plunged deeply into her pockets, staring up at the big, fat, flakes as they silently fall down to the ground.

Somewhere behind her, she can hear Bri and Jess let out excited whoops and the startled shriek that comes from Lisa as she gets beaned in the head by a carefully crafted snowball made off of the snow that's gathered in the back of Jess' boyfriend's truck.

The smell of wood smoke, the crisp biting scent of the sea and the cool feel of the snow as it gathers in her hair pull Emma back to her childhood.

She'd always loved the snow. It was the blanket that you pulled up over you, washing everything clean and white and pure once more. Snow hid the darkness in the world beneath a coating of wonderment that Emma couldn't shake, well past the age when she was supposed to believe in such things.

They'd given her a Christmas present, all pitched in as a team to get her the beautifully wrapped (Ashleigh's mother's doing, apparently) box that's carefully set in Emma's bag so it won't get damaged. Emma hadn't known how to handle their expectant faces and had stumbled her way through explaining that she wants to open it on Christmas morning. They'd understood, sort of, and Emma'd left as soon as she could, coming out to stand in the snow.

The poem says that watching the woods fill up with snow is the best way to watch the snow fall, but Emma likes to watch the town fill up with snow. There is so much more to mask in a carefully blank veneer in a town, especially one like this.

They've won again, four times now. They lost an out of conference game against Portland, but after that they've rattled off four wins in a row. Regina's car is waiting, Emma can see it now, Henry's breath and little stick figure drawings on the window seem to dance from the dome light that's on inside.

"You guys all have rides, right?" Emma calls, watching as Leo locks up the gym behind the last one out of the locker room.

They all nod and Emma waves to Leo, who raises his arm in return, only to let it fall and rest on his chest briefly, before shaking his head. Emma's eyes narrow, watching as the snow falls around him and his rack of empty and rinsed-out water bottles. She's already put the LL Bean bag full of their plays and Saturday's game tape into his car.

There's never been a need to lock them here.

Emma glances over towards Regina's car once more, and then turns, hitching her bag up under her hood and heads over to Leo. "Coach," she says, drawing level with him as he holds his keys up, hand shaking slightly in the light as he finds the car key. "Are you okay?"

Leo's brows narrow under his cap and he scowls at her. "Never better, Swan," he retorts, but there's a worried pull to the corners of his lips that makes Emma want to make him sit and maybe go see a doctor. "Your ride's waiting, kid," he adds, glancing to were Regina's car is idling. "Don't want to keep her waiting, do you?"

"No sir," Emma agrees, shaking her head and smiling at him. The worry is still there on his face, but his hands aren't shaking anymore and he seems to grow and stand tall and proud before her. "I'll see you Saturday for the pregame conference."

"Alright," Leo says, waving her off. His breath mists before him, making him look like a creature of Tolkien's or Jack Frost himself. It wraps him in mystery and fills Emma with the oddest sense of foreboding as she shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot. Leo's almost smiling, and she's still not quite used to him doing that. He'll always be her unsmiling, perfectionist coach, no matter how their relationship grows and changes. "Merry Christmas, if I don't see you."

"You too," Emma replies, with emotion that she doesn't really feel. Christmas has always been just another day to her, a day of broken promises and disappointment.

She has a present though. And she's given presents this year. They're all delivered now, left in little packages with tinsel and ribbon tied all around. The copper pot's been clutch and Mary Margaret keeps eyeing it enviously when she thinks Emma's not looking. She's maybe chancing into new routines and traditions.

Her boots splash quietly on the snow-damp pavement, the only sounds that fill the night air now are the sounds of Leo and Regina's engines idling, rattling a metallic sound that disrupts the silent sound of the snow. She doesn't know why she's so worries about Leo, but Emma figures that Mary Margaret will be home this week so there's someone to watch him.

Henry's hanging over the driver's seat, and Regina's looking over a homework assignment, a pen in her hands and her lips pursed as she checks his math. Emma pulls the door open and leans, her hand pressed against the damp roof of the car. "Mind if I join you guys?" she asks as Henry's face brightens and the look of concentration fades to quiet welcome as Regina hands Henry back his paper.

"I think," she says, glancing back at Henry with a small smile playing at her lips, "That the Lady Knights could go all the way again this year."

Emma swallows. She's been avoiding thinking about it because there is a really good chance that it could happen. The last time they'd done it they'd had a guard just like Bri, and had played this same style. Emma hates that she can see so much of her team in this one; it drives home her failure more and more. "Maybe," she says, and gets into the car.

It's become another routine that she's fallen into. Regina comes to the home games with Henry, and Emma will go home with her afterwards. "Mom made lasagna because it's so close to Christmas," Henry explains excitedly from the backseat. He's practically vibrating with excitement, and Emma can't help but smile at him as Regina puts the Mercedes into drive and heads out of the parking lot.

Leo's car is still there when they go around the bend, but the dome light is on and he's clearly on the phone. Emma hopes that she's imagined the worry pulling at his lips and in his eyes. He's strong, but he's not stupid, if there was something wrong, she's pretty sure he'd ask for help.

"You're quiet tonight," Regina comments as they turn up the side street short cut to Mifflin Street. Emma bites her lip and doesn't point out that she's quiet too, because she's driving in the snow and it's reasonable to expect concentration on slick roads.

Still, Henry's in the car and Emma isn't really sure that she should say anything just yet. She swallows the want to tell someone about what she's seen, like she's done so many times before, and voices the other thing that's bothering her. "The girls..." she trails off and shakes her head. She doesn't know why she's avoiding the truth, but she supposes that it's worth it to avoid upsetting Henry. "They got me a Christmas present."

The corners of Regina's eyes crinkle, crow's feet appearing as she smiles and turns onto Mifflin Street. They're the only car around, the town filling up with snow around them. Yellow light spills from the windows around them as they drive slowly past. "I can imagine that that was weird for you."

"Why?" Henry wants to know from the back seat.

There's a moment then, where this careful peace could have snapped so easily. Emma hasn't really ever talked to Henry about her childhood, and she's pretty sure Regina hasn't mentioned it either. It's just understood between them that it doesn't every get talked about.

She's saved by the bell, or rather by the sudden turn into Regina's driveway. Henry scrambles from the car without an answer to his question and Emma allows herself to take a hesitant breath.

It rattles around in her chest, wings fluttering, a moth to the flame. It doesn't make her feel any better, just settled the dread and the self-doubt more firmly at the pit of her stomach.

"How do you tell a kid that you've never really had a Christmas?" Emma asks as Regina reaches behind Emma to retrieve her purse and briefcase. She watches as Regina sets them on her lap and stares down at the expensive leather for and Coach logo. "How can I explain that to him and have him understand?"

"Try," Regina suggests, her fingers close around the straps of both her purse and briefcase. She slings them over her shoulder and settles them there before taking the keys out of the ignition and switching off the lights. "And I understand, even if he doesn't."

Emma bites her lip and looks away. "I'm glad you do," she says. Everything has been so hectic since she took this coaching position. She's spending more and more time holed up with Leo, watching film and going over game plans and contingency plans. They plan every aspect of the game so completely that Emma thinks that she could do game prep in her sleep.

They trail inside after Henry, stomping the snow out of their boots and peering out the windows of the darkened dining room, watching the yard fill up with snow. Regina sets about heating up the lasagna and Emma takes the plates that Henry hands her and goes into the dining room. She sets the table in the dark, grateful that the blackness of the room covers how her hands are shaking.

She hates Christmas, always has. It's a day that means more broken promises than her birthday a month and a half ago. It's strange that one of her better Christmas memories comes from this house, when Regina's father had been home and everything had been so much simpler. She'd kept that stuffed bear until they'd taken all of her things from her at the prison in Oregon. Emma has no idea where it went. At least her baby blanket, the one thing she still has of the family that abandoned her to this village by the sea, had survived, tucked aside with her belongings in storage.

She's thinking in circles.

"Are you okay?" Henry asks, standing in the doorway, three glasses cradled against his chest, silverware poking out of one.

Emma shakes her head. "I don't know, Henry," she replies. She takes the glasses he offers her and sets them around the table, plucking silverware out of the final glass and settling them around the plates. She learned that here, she thinks, before they took her away on a snowy day sort of like this. "I was trying to figure out how to answer your question from earlier, honestly."

Henry climbs into the seat next to where Emma's very carefully arranging forks and knives on top of neatly folded napkins. "How do you mean?" His eyes are wide and Emma knows that even though there are quite bangs and the sounds of Regina puttering around in the kitchen, that she's listening in. "Everyone likes Christmas."

"They like Christmas when they have families that love them and presents to unwrap, for kids who don't have that, it's just another day. A bad day," Emma adds the last bit, not quite daring to meet Henry's eyes. He's sitting with his hands in his lap, head hung and fidgeting.

"That just means that you have to spend Christmas with us," Henry announces just as Regina walks into the room, the pan of lasagna and a spatula in hand as she sets it onto the trivet that Henry's produced from some drawer that Emma hadn't known existed below the breakfast bar in the kitchen. "Right mom?"

Regina is silent, slowly standing and crossing over to switch on the light above the table. This game was early, it's eight thirty, but already dark as midnight outside, snow swirling down around them. She lingers in shadow, even after Emma and Henry are bathed in light, watching with solemn eyes from the darkness.

"Henry..." Emma begins, biting at the inside of her cheek to keep from protesting that she'd never wanted to spend the day with them anyway - because she really, really had.

She's cut off with a quiet cough and Regina sweeping back into the light. Her eyes are bright now, glistening at the edges, and she shakes her head just once to silence Emma's protest. "If you are free, Emma, we'd love to have you. You know it's just Henry and I... my mother prefers to avoid Maine in the winter."

Emma's heart feels full to burst and she can't trust herself to speak. She nods her agreement and helps to cut and serve the lasagna without comment, trying not think of how this will probably only be her fifth true Christmas.

She recalls the times with Killian's father, with Leo and Mary Margaret, with Regina's family when she'd been scarcely old enough to remember, that first winter with Neal before everything had gone so horribly wrong; those were the good times. She can count the number of times that the holiday hasn't ended in frustrated tears and longing for something that she know she can never have on one hand and Regina's offering her a chance to fill out that hand. She'll take it, yes, she'll take it a thousand times over.

Henry asks about the game as they eat and Emma finally finds words enough to ask about his homework and if they still read _The Phantom Tollbooth_ in fourth grade. This leads into a discussion of the finer of Milo and Tock's exploits in the Kingdom of Wisdom. Henry's convinced that there's got to be more to the story, as it jumped so quickly once Milo reached the Island of Conclusions, but Emma can't help but argue with him that it's all a big joke for the grownups who read that book to their kids.

She shows him the jump to conclusions scene from Office Space on youtube before he goes to bed to prove her point and he scowls at her and asks if she's sleeping over.

"That depends on your mom," Emma says, glancing over her shoulder to where Regina's lingering in the doorway. "There's a lot of dishes though, and I'm pretty sure that she'll put me to work." She wrinkles her nose at this and Henry laughs. Emma tassels his hair and pulls his covers up. "Night kid," she says as Regina shuts off the light and they head back downstairs.

Outside the snow is coming down harder than before, there looks to be a decent amount of accumulation on the roads now, and the pots of the fence are capped with little snow hats that look to be about three inches tall.

"Dang," Emma says, peering out window in the dining room. She's got her hands full of plates, but it doesn't take much to see how fast it's coming down now.

"You might have to stay here after all, dear," Regina comments from where she's wrapping up the lasagna in a few tupperware containers to be dispersed as lunches once the holidays are over. She's packing all but a few into the freezer. "I don't want you getting lost in the snow."

"I'm pretty sure that I'd be okay," Emma replies. She rinses off the plates and loads them into the dishwasher before going back for the cutlery and glasses. Those, too, are rinsed out and loaded up before Regina hands her the pyrex dish that she'd baked the lasagna in. It's an older model, white and printed with flowers on the inside. The sort that Emma'd expect a grandmother to have, not someone like Regina Mills, whose kitchen was decked out in all the latest kitchen gadgetry. She supposed that it could have been the Senator's, but it was Regina's father who liked to cook, if she remembers correctly.

She sets it to soak, warm soapy water up to her elbows as she's grateful that she rolled up the sleeves of her dress shirt up. She feels silly and out of place in this kitchen, playing house with someone so completely and utterly unattainable. "But I don't mind staying."

"Good," Regina says and there's a hint of darkness in her tone that Emma finds intriguing as she scrubs off crusted cheese and tomato sauce from the sides of the dish with a bit of steel wool. "I hadn't intended on letting you leave."

Emma turns, her eyebrow raised in challenge. Regina is sitting at the breakfast bar, a glass of something dark and amber resting on the table before her. She's got one finger poised on the edge. "Is that so?" Emma asks.

"Oh, I'm quite certain," Regina says loftily and Emma knows that this is what she wants more than anything else. This is the piece that's been missing, what she ran from last time. Ran like a coward because it was the right thing to do. She wasn't there first, and she wasn't going to deny Regina a chance at normalcy and at least tacit parental approval.

The dish goes forgotten in the sink as Emma dries her hands and draws Regina back up the stairs and into her dark bedroom. The snow is falling heavily outside, casting fluffy shadows across Regina's crisp white sheets as they stumble forward and land in a giggling heap. This is all so sudden, but it's what she's wanted for years now. Emma is tired of running from whatever this is between them, this love that is not quite yet love, but could be love in short order. She wants it and Regina wants it and finally, finally, they both can have it.

Snow falls quietly outside and the flakes fill up the panes in the windows, impervious to the heat inside. Emma finds herself babbling, her forehead pressed into Regina's shoulder, rocking back and forth. She talks about how this is what she's always wanted, how she's done lying to herself about it. She comes apart promising that it won't ever be forgotten, that Regina's unforgettable no matter how hard Emma had tried to forget her.

It's when they're dozing afterwards, sweat-sticky skin pressed against cool sheets, that Emma finally says what's been bothering her since after the game. "I think that Leo's sick," she confesses. Her forearm is flung over her forehead and the other is wrapped around Regina, holding her close. "And that's why he's letting me coach. _I _wouldn't let me near corruptible kids. Nope."

Regina hums at the back of her throat and twists over to set an alarm. She fiddles with her phone for a few moments before settling back into the comfort or Emma's embrace. "I think you're better with kids than you give yourself credit for. Henry adores you."

Emma sighs. "I just hate that everyone knows how badly I messed up. I could have been the one person in this town aside from your dad to make something of myself, but I threw it all away on a shit boyfriend who knew what to say to me when I was at my absolute worst."

"Yet you've come back with your head held high," Regina points out. She prods Emma in the cheek with her finger. "It's more than I could have done." She's sleepy and her words are blending together like a river meeting the sea, swirls of two different bodies of water trying to blend and not quite managing it. Emma lets her eyes flutter closed before she can tell Regina that she's stronger, far stronger than Emma ever could be.

Emma could have never carried on.

And outside, the snow falls.

Emma dreams of warmth and the comfort of home, the end to an inevitable journey. She's standing in the woods, watching them as they fill with silent fluffy flakes, plunging the world into crisp, clean white. She's not on a horse, not like in the poem; she's just standing by the side of the road, hands in her pockets, watching the snow fall around her.

It's starting over, she realizes, the past is being washed anew.

Christmas Eve in Storybrooke is something of a group affair. The diner hosts a pancake breakfast and then the entire town gets to work setting up a luminaire for the night. Emma listens as Regina dresses Henry in more layers than are probably needed. She's explaining that the lights were a tradition started by the Miners in response to the nuns who sold their candles for coal to heat the convent during the winter back in the day. It was their way of honoring them, Regina adds, handing Emma a pair of ski gloves and a hat that probably belongs to Henry, what for the obnoxiously red tassel and Pats logo stitched into the side. Emma crams it on over her head and they all head out to the garage.

"I usually just save my milk jugs for about a month or so," Regina says as she collects a large storage bin full of washed clean and capped milk jugs. She sets two aside by the door and they load the rest into the car. "Some people save them all year."

"That's a lot," Emma says, wide eyed. She knows how fast some families go through milk. When she and Killian had been kids, they'd been notorious for finishing off a half-gallon in a day between glasses of the stuff at dinner and bowls of cereal for breakfast and after school.

They haven't really talked, not really anyway. Regina's alarm had gone off at stupid o'clock and Emma'd rolled out of bed and had spent a few more cold hours on the couch until Henry had prodded her awake and had promised free pancakes. Never one to turn down a free meal, Emma'd rolled over and had promptly fallen off the couch. Half and hours later and her ass still hurts and Regina keeps shooting her these amused little grins when she thinks Emma isn't looking. After Henry's safely in the car, Emma hisses, "You know, this would have been a _lot_ less painful for me if you'd just let me stay."

Regina's lips quirk downwards and she shakes her head. "He knows…" she begins quietly, because they both know that Henry's listening in. "But I'd wanted…" she trails off, sighing a puff of foggy breath into the morning air. Emma can see the conflict "I'd wanted to tell him about us before he wakes up to find us together. I don't want him to think I'm replacing Daniel."

"Okay," Emma says. There's really no other response. She can't replace Henry's father and she's certainly not going to try. Killian hasn't either and it's working out okay for the both of them, Emma thinks. They're just positive influences in Henry's life, no matter how ridiculous Killian is, most of the time. "You guys should have a talk soon though; your couch is too short and uncomfortable."

"Yes dear." Regina says dismissively and Emma sticks her tongue out at her.

The diner is crowded and Emma's a little taken aback by how many people are still in town despite the holiday and the snow. Killian slings his arm over her shoulder and sips coffee expertly out of the mug that he's got his hook neatly tangled around. Emma laughs at him and leans in, grateful that he's there and that he doesn't mind her presence. "I got your little care package," he says in a low undertone. "Really good fudge."

Emma smiles easily at him, watching has his own smile returns. "Please tell me you didn't eat it all at once."

"Might have had a few pieces…" Killian mumbles and Emma rolls her eyes. The fudge that she and Mary Margaret had made had been rather rich. They'd used the recipe off of the back of the jar of marshmallow fluff that Emma'd picked up at Sprat's earlier that day, and had set the trays out to cool on the fire escape while they attempted a marbled batch that tasted good, but looked a hot mess. Still, it was worth it to wrap the little bundles up and to write notes to everyone who'd helped her since she'd returned to Storybrooke. She'd borrowed Mary Margaret's beat-up old Blazer and had delivered the goods yesterday before the game, catching most people at work so that they'd remain in mailboxes and on back porches until their recipients returned home.

"Are you ready for tonight?" Emma asks him later. They're drinking coffee outside the diner now, watching as their breath fogs up the morning and listening to the foghorn call mournfully in the distance. The snow has drifted up to Emma's knees in places, a true Christmas storm has blanketed the town into something almost picturesque.

"I am if the kids are," Killian replies. He smiles then, slow and easy, sipping at his coffee as Christmas Eve Morn grows into what precious little warmth the day is going to offer. Emma shivers and shuffles closer to Killian. She's still wearing yesterday's clothes and she's sure he's noticed. He hasn't said anything and Emma's grateful for that. She doesn't think she can quite explain what had happened last night, or if she truly wants to risk putting a label on what she and Regina are tentatively exploring right now.

Every year the children who are a part of the after school program that Killian helps run at the library put on a play on Christmas Eve. It's always carefully planned in advance, with any children who are going out of town not involved in the actual production proper. Emma's been in it twice, once as a snowflake and again as a reindeer. She was quite the show stealer, back in the day.

This year's play is an adaptation of some TV special that Emma's never heard of, telling the story of a little boy who has parents trying to find a home at Christmas. Emma's pretty sure that Killian adapted it himself and doesn't say much of anything when he gets this wistful, nostalgic look on his face when he talks about the show itself. She's just glad he's found something to spend his off season doing that isn't risking life and limb in a tiny rowboat out in the bay.

"Six in the pot by the dock today," Killian comments and Emma's eyebrows shoot up. "Not entirely sure why they're not hibernating."

"Probably because it's only just recently remembered its winter," Emma says, shivering again and glancing back towards the diner and wondering how appropriate it is for her to spend time with Regina at a public event like this. They'd arrived together for anyone who'd wanted to see, but after that they'd split off into their own little social circles. Emma gravitated towards David Nolan and Killian, who were sitting towards the back of the diner at one of the booths, racing each other through two copies of the _Mirror's_ daily Sudoku.

"Could be that," Killian agrees.

Later that night, Emma finds herself following Regina back inside the house that holds so many secrets, lingering only for a moment at the door. She settles in next to Henry and reads him _The Polar Express _and _The Littlest Angel_ and tries not to think too hard about what it must be like to be so loved a child. She would have killed for such a feeling of love and of happiness when she was the age of the children in these stories – when she was Henry's age. Everything kept getting worse and worse.

Regina's found a third stocking somewhere in the attic and Emma's very carefully hidden the small collection of presents that she's brought with her for Henry (and the one small box for Regina) in the hall closet. She feels like she's imposing, but as Regina carts a sleepy Henry up to bed and lays out milk and cookies for Santa, Emma wonders if this isn't where she's supposed to be.

She stands in front of the merrily crackling fire that she'd helped Henry build after dinner and before their book reading, her fingers resting on the mantle. She could belong here, yes, she really, really could.

A quiet buzzing from her pocket pulls Emma from her thoughts and she absently fishes her phone from her pocket. Mary Margaret is calling her, which is strange, because she's usually in bed by ten o'clock even on a vacation. Emma flips the phone open and presses the receive button. "Hey, what's up?"

There's a scratchy sound on the other end, like the phone is being jostled, and Emma can hear voices. Her stomach clenches and she glances down at the stockings that are dangling down over the fire, not low enough to catch fire, but low enough to be worry some. "Mary Margaret?" Emma tries again.

"Emma?" Her voice sounds distant. It's hoarse like she's been crying and there's the dry sniffle that says maybe she still is. "Emma where are you?"

Glancing around, Emma wonders if she should tell the truth or back away from the situation. She has no idea what may be bothering Mary Margaret, but the sick feeling at the pit of her stomach draws back the sight of Leo clutching his chest last night after the game. God, Emma swallows and steels her nerves. "I'm at Regina's. We went to see Killian's play together." She pauses for a half a beat before adding the more important question: "What's wrong?"

Mary Margaret sniffs loudly and there's a pause before she says, her voice sounding broken and unhappy, "My dad's in the hospital, Emma. He had a heart attack. They've got him in surgery now."

There's a ringing in Emma's ears. It echoes louder and louder as she reaches out blindly and grabs hold of the mantle before her. Her grip is white-knuckled and she's shaking all over. She can scarcely hear Mary Margaret's plea for a response, her mind is racing.

Leo is the closest thing she's ever had to a father. He's been a coach and a mentor for as long as Emma can remember. He's a constant, a good-natured, grouchy old man that pushes Emma harder than anyone's ever pushed her before. He's supposed to be invincible.

"Emma," Mary Margaret says shakily and the ringing grows louder still. She's sitting there, shell-shocked, staring with unseeing eyes into the merrily dancing flames on the eve of what was supposed to be the beginnings of a happy memory. "Emma, can you come?"

Shaking herself, Emma blinks rapidly. There are tears stinging at the corners of her eyes and she can't help but wince, trying to will them away into nothingness. She has to be strong, for Mary Margaret and for Leo. "Yeah, I'll come. Are you at the hospital in Bar Harbor?"

Mary Margaret makes an affirmative noise and sniffs loudly. "Our attending physician's name is Whale," she explains and Emma tries to commit the name to memory.

"Okay, I'll be there as soon as I can," Emma says. She's going to have to drive around the park - and she doesn't have a car. She hangs up the phone and stares down at it in her hand. It seems so insignificant now, and she wants to hurl it out into the ether, to pretend that Leo isn't sick and that the sick feeling of dread that's welled up in the pit of her stomach is nothing but indigestion.

She could call Killian, but he's probably off with his librarian friend, celebrating another year's successful performance. Emma sighs and runs a hand through her hair. She doesn't want to ask Regina, because this has nothing to do with her.

There's a quiet click behind her as Regina pushes the study door closed against Henry's prying ears and folds her arms across her chest. Emma knows that she looks a wreck; that it's obvious she's upset and is on the verge of falling apart.

"You look like you've seen a ghost," Though her tone is mild, Emma can see the concern in Regina's eyes and it makes her stomach hurt even more thinking about how she can possibly tell someone that an old family friend is in the hospital.

Emma stares down at her phone, willing it to ring and for Mary Margaret to come on, howling with laughter, saying that she got Emma good. It isn't going to happen and Emma's stuck trying to swallow all that has happened. She takes a deep breath. "Leo had a heart attack. I need to go to the hospital." She says it like she's trying to stay calm, which she is. She's desperate to keep her breathing level and her voice calm. She doesn't want to alarm anyone by completely falling apart; she's done that before - when she was far younger - to disastrous results.

A dry, wretched sound escapes Emma's mouth then, and she raises a shaking hand to cover it. She's going to completely lose it. Her phone falls to the floor and the fire pops behind her. She can't handle this, not again. She's got to get out of here.

She's about to crumple, to fall to her knees, anxiety overcoming her, when Regina's hands close around her own and pull her in as close as Emma dares get. She's sobbing into expensive silk, her tears blossoming wet flowers all over Regina's shoulder.

"Do you need me to drive you?" Regina asks quietly. Her fingers are tracing soothing patterns on Emma's back and Emma wants to snap at her. To demand that she show some fucking emotion. Leo's a friend of her family's - has been for years. Regina's never been particularly keen on him, but she's never actively disliked him (according to Killian anyway) after he'd said some choice things about her during a city council meeting a few years back. "Or do you want to go by yourself."

Regina knows loss and injury and heart attacks. She knows what it's like to get a phone call in the middle of the night saying that someone who is in the hospital. Someone you love.

She's gotten worse phone calls than that before.

"I don't want to take your car," Emma says. She's sniffling and doesn't want to get snot all over Regina's shirt on top of everything else her traitorous mind is already thinking. "And I don't want... Henry..."

"I'll call Killian on the way over, he knows where the key is," Regina's pulling Emma upright and staring at her. She brushes the tears away from Emma's eyes with thumbs that seem practiced in the motion. "He's going to be okay," she says, but Emma can see the uncertainty that's barely hidden in her eyes.

He has to be.

Killian is a little drunk when Regina calls him, but Belle, the librarian friend, isn't. She listens to Regina and promises to get Killian over as soon as possible and to stay. Emma's half listening to the phone conversation as they drive up the narrow road that cuts through the park and over towards the hospital. The roads are icy and they haven't been salted yet. Emma isn't even sure if they would salt this road, given that it's Christmas in twenty minutes and everyone who's got any family elsewhere has already left.

"I don't want him to die," Emma mumbles as Regina sets her phone in her lap and puts both hands back on the steering wheel. She doesn't know how to say that he's the closest thing she's ever had to a father. Sure, Killian's dad was there, but he'd also given her back. Leo had never given up on her. Never, even now with his judgmental comments and thinly-veiled criticism of her past, he hasn't given up.

Regina's jaw clenches and Emma can't tell what she's thinking. The car goes faster as they hit a straight-away and Emma curls within her coat in, staring out into the wilderness. Maybe this is her Polar Express; maybe there are wolves in this forest too.

"When Daniel fell off the boat, I knew that it was over," Regina says. Both of her eyes are fixed on the road, fingers white-knuckled on the steering wheel. "I-" she falters, but sucks in a huge breath of air and continues to speak as the silent trees of the woods around Storybrooke fly by. "I had to keep Henry safe and I just froze. He was in the water and my father was screaming for me to throw him a line to get him out of the water. My mother was below trying to radio the Coast Guard, there was no one else to help him. I watched him drown because I didn't dare let go of my son."

Emma swallows nervously. "Why are you telling me this?" She doesn't understand, her mind can't process the information and look for a hidden meaning. She's not smart enough for that on a good day, but now, with everything that's happening, she can't figure it out at all.

Regina glances over at her, before she shakes her head. "Because Mr. Blanchard is not in that situation. He's in a hospital surrounded by doctors and nurses and people who care for him. It isn't a split second decision where there is no right choice. You shouldn't worry, Emma. He'll pull through."

Silence grows, a great divide expanding between them and Emma buries her want to comfort Regina. It's in the past, now, that isn't why Regina is telling her about what happened. It hurts still. She didn't know the specifics, just to know that it didn't look right. Why hadn't Henry been below with his grandmother? Emma chews on her lip and wonders if that situation might have been by design.

"I'm sorry about Dan," Emma says finally, lamely. She's said it before and she's sure that she'll say it again. She pushes all the mutinous thoughts of foul play and suspicion from her mind and tries to remember that they're all only human. She would have frozen too.

"Me too," Regina replies. She moves the car around the twists and turns of the dark country road with a precision that makes Emma wonder how many times she's raced down it in the dead of night.

The hospital is not the best in the state, or even the county, but the harsh lights of ER shine like beacons out of the automatic doors as Regina swings the Mercedes into a blissfully close parking space. Emma's out of the car in seconds, but she waits for Regina to button her coat more closely around herself before they hurry into the hospital.

There is only one waiting room, and Emma can see Mary Margaret sitting at the edge of an uncomfortable-looking plastic chair, a half-shredded paper cup in her hands. She doesn't get up when they walk in. Her eyes are fixed on something that Emma can't see, a specter in the darkness of the night.

"Mary Margaret?" Emma asks, crossing to her side in three long strides and falling to her knees beside her friend. Her eyes are red from crying and she doesn't seem to see anything at all, looking through Emma as though she's not there at all.

"Hey," Emma tries again, nudging Mary Margaret's hand from where it's clenched around her decimated cup. "Hey, we're here."

Mary Margaret is still silent, but she gives a small hiccup and tears continue to run down her cheeks. Emma risks a panicked glance over towards Regina, who is speaking with the receptionist. It goes unnoticed and the worried knot that's settled at the base of Emma's stomach clenches harshly. She thinks she knows what's happened and she throws her arms around Mary Margaret and pulls her in as tight as she can.

"I am so sorry," Emma whispers into Mary Margaret's dark mop of hair. She's half-hiccupping herself, tears starting to flow down her cheeks as she feels, rather than sees, Regina come to stand beside her. There's a hesitant touch on her shoulder and Emma knows almost without looking, that they are too late.

Oh god, they are too late.

Emma clings to Mary Margaret tighter and tries to will herself to be strong. Her resolve is shaking and all she can think about is the team and how is she going to tell them what's happened. Her tongue feels heavily in her throat and she doesn't dare speak. She just lets Regina's fingers tangle soothingly in her hair and tries to will the world to stop.

She doesn't know how to do anything else.

They leave the hospital at five-thirty in the morning, once Mary Margaret has signed the thousands of papers that she's required to sign and they've given her a few minutes alone to say goodbye to her father.

Emma's spent the better part of the night pacing, telling Regina that she'd seen the signs, but that he'd brushed them off as not-important. Regina listens and doesn't say much at all, her eyes dark and full of emotion that Emma cannot place.

Now she sits in the front seat, clinging to Regina's hand as Mary Margaret stares silently out the back window, her breath fogging and drawing out the smudges and smiling faces that Henry's drawn on the window that Regina hasn't had time to clean off yet.

Emma's shaking as she clings to Regina's hand. "What do we tell Henry?"

Regina's eyes narrow, and her grip on Emma's hand tightens. "We tell him the truth," she shakes her head. "I do not lie to my son, dear."

Her mind is sluggish, she knows that she desperately needs to sleep, but all she wants is to go back to this morning. It's a lifetime ago now, but it was so good to have a warm, pliant Regina without a care in the world. Now she's freezing and there isn't warmth in sight.

"I shouldn't be there," Mary Margaret says quietly. Her voice is hoarse from crying and lack of sleep, but she keeps it steady. "I don't want to ruin your Christmas."

Emma opens her mouth to reply, but Regina beats her to it. "I have some... experience with what you are going through, Ms. Blanchard. I don't mind your company and I don't think you should be alone."

Turning in her seat to look at Mary Margaret, Emma takes in the red-rimmed eyes and grief-exhausted form of her disheveled best friend. She tries to smile, but it comes off a little bit as a grimace. "I want to stay with you, okay?" She bites her lip. "Leo was, shit; he is one of the most important people in the world to me. I can't imagine what you're feeling, but you don't have to feel it alone."

Christmas, after the morning that they've had, is a sleepy affair. Henry is upset when they tell him why his teacher is sleeping in the guestroom and why Killian is dozing on the couch, but he understands and sneaks in to sit next to Mary Margaret, clinging to her hand and telling her all his happy memories of Leo.

Emma wonders how often Henry's had to do that for his mother. She rummages around until she finds the coffee and brews a strong pot, handing a mug to both Regina and Killian, who lifts up his arm and lets her sit next to him. She's cradling the coffee to her chest like it's a lifeline, scared to meet anyone's eyes and admit her own weakness.

David Nolan comes over after lunch with Ruby and they take Mary Margaret back to David's house to start trying to figure out how to have a funeral so close to Christmas. Emma helps Henry to open his presents and smiles shyly as Regina opens the small extravagance that Emma's been able to afford to give her. It's from a stone that she found at the bottom of one of the traps this summer, a nearly-perfect garnet that a jeweler in Bangor was able to remove and make into a necklace for what Emma hopes was a decent price.

"Where did you find this?" Regina asks, staring at it as the blood-red stone catches the light.

Emma leans back, fingers wrapped around the knee she's got pulled up to her chest. "It must've chipped off of a rock down at the bottom of the ocean or something. There was a big hunk of it in a pot we hauled up this summer. I just got it extracted." She shrugs. There are veins of garnet in the rocks all over Storybrooke. When she and Killian were kids, they used to go looking for it, scrambling with scraped knees and jagged rock 'chisels,' trying to extract the tiny red stones when they found them along the seams of the quartz and granite that formed the shores of Storybrooke. "It's a part of this town," she adds. "Like you and I are."

Regina smiles and it almost manages to chase away the sadness in her eyes. Emma so desperately wants to make her happy, but their lives are plagued by sadness, it seems. She hates it so much, hates god and whatever for taking people from them both so violently. Maybe it's enough to have each other. Emma doesn't know.

Turning, Regina lifts up her hair and offering the back of her neck to Emma. Emma takes the silver chain and fastens it, lingering for a moment, her lips a hairs breath away from pressing a kiss to the back of Regina's neck.

Henry glances up at her and rolls his eyes before making a loud gagging noise and flipping the lego he's working with over. Emma leans forward and kisses Regina's neck and smiles wickedly at Henry as Regina leans backwards into her.

"Does this mean that you're going to stay here now?" Henry demands, clicking the lego into place and flipping the directions booklet to the next page. Beside him, the small box from the team lies forgotten, Emma can't bear the thought of opening it now, without them. "Because I'm really, really okay with that, so long as you're not gross."

"Uh..." Emma says.

"Just go with it, dear," Regina whispers.

Emma thinks she can do that.

**Leonard Blanchard  
Storybrooke's Longtime Coach: A Retrospective**

S. Glass, Special to Storybrooke Mirror, December 26th, 2012

STORYBROOKE - I first met Leo Blanchard fifteen years ago and the first thing he ever said to me has stuck with me. I was a stranger in a town where everyone knew everyone, but he greeted me like an old friend all the same. He asked me if I could have anything in the world, what I would want. I didn't know the answer at the time, and he smiled at me, telling me that it was good answer.

He was a wise man, a student of the game he coached. Blanchard dedicated his life to improving the quality of basketball play at all ages through his school-sponsored summer camp programs and volunteering on the youth spring development leagues. He fostered coaching and playing talent in the young women of Storybrooke wherever he found it.

Under his watch, Storybrooke boasted a 70% winning record. Coaching in more than 1,000 games over his career at Storybrooke high, Leo won more than games than any coach before him in varsity ball. He brought his teams to the playoffs twelve times and won it all once, a feat that brings him among the rarified air of Maine's coaches.

Three times, Blanchard turned down the opportunity to coach the boys at Storybrooke; once more he turned down a chance to coach at USM. He was deeply passionate about fostering the women's basketball talent of the area and didn't care much of the politics of the game. He coached the Maine Varsity All-Stars in 2001 to a wins over New Hampshire and Vermont before eventually losing to Connecticut in the New England Classic tournament to end up the season that April.

Blanchard is perhaps best known for the 2002 championship squad, led by much-maligned guard Emma Swan. Under his leadership and her stellar play, the Lady Knights rose to the rarified air of state champions, a feat that had not happened since South Bristol won it all in 1992 and has not been repeated since. After that championship match, I remember him telling me that all he could possibly ever want was for his family, his team, and his town to be happy - and that in winning, he thought that he'd made everyone's hearts soar.

Survived by his coaching legacy, Blanchard stands in a rarified air among Storybrooke residents. His daughter, Mary Margaret Blanchard, has followed in his teaching footsteps, teaching fourth grade in Storybrooke. Leo's other legacy lies in his current assistant coach. After returning to Storybrooke last summer, Emma Swan won back the trust of her former coach and took an assistant's position on this year's squad. While some questioned Blanchard's decision to accept Swan back into the fold of Storybrooke High athletics, her influence is clearly visible in the level of play of this year's team. The Lady Knights are currently 6-0 with a preseason non-conference loss to South Portland High. There is no limit to how far this squad could go, and it now falls to Swan to lead them to wherever the season takes them.

This reporter and this town mourn the loss of one of our own, a truly great friend and coach.

**Funeral Services are arranged for December 30 at two o'clock in the afternoon, they are to be held at the high school with a private burial ceremony to follow.

_"See the moon roll across the stars  
see the seasons turn like a heart  
your father's days are lost to you  
this is your time here to do what you will do"_

- John Mellencamp

_ "I would give anything  
I would give to  
Be  
You"_

- five for fighting

* * *

I want apologize for the delay in the release of this chapter. This has been a really crazy week between work, a football game, my fantasy draft, more work, and being generally away from my computer. Hopefully a longer chapter will make you all very happy, however this is not the end of this particular section. Try as I might, I couldn't quite put the events of this chapter as well as their aftermath all as one update. The thing would have been about 20k words long then, and I felt like you guys deserve to have this story be paced better than that. So this story has now been extended to 15 'real' chapters and there will be a 16th part which will serve as the epilogue.

Soundtrack : 8 tracks dot com anamatics/the-return-ost


	12. Chapter 12

**The Return**

_a fanfic by anamatics_

* * *

**Chapter Eleven – For the Team (Dec 29-30, 2012)**

_"When you panic__  
Do you count to ten  
When you're surrounded  
Do you hold your breath"_

- Jaill

The keys feel like they weigh a thousand pounds as Emma fiddles with them, trying to figure out which one opens up the equipment room and which leads to the empty office off the hallway to the high school's single locker room. Emma doesn't want to go in there, she doesn't dare. She's afraid that even her presence in the room will set things in motion. She's afraid that she'll drive the point home far better than sitting with Mary Margaret sobbing in her arms ever will.

She's trying to be the strong one, after all.

Finally a key – the right key - slides home. Emma turn the lock quickly and pulls the two racks of basketballs and basket freshly laundered practice jerseys out of the room before closing the door once more. She doesn't dare breathe while she's in that room. It somehow feels dishonest, like she's stepped into someone's tomb.

Emma has done her preps alone. She's sat in the basement of the library in front of their shitty CRT TV and VCR combo and watched and re-watched the film of their next opponent and their own last game. She has a list of teaching points that she's written down and an even bigger list of questions she has to ask the team about how all this is done. She'd done this with Leo eight times before this, but it feels like a whole new sort of a ball game now that she's alone.

The principal of the school had called her on Christmas Day, and had demanded to know if she was still up to the position of coaching. The school board, given the circumstances, had decided that it wasn't worth trying to force Emma to 'better' herself through schooling if she was suddenly stuck coaching their team solo. Emma, who had been sitting with Henry's head in her lap, reading more of the _Phantom Tollbooth_ to him, had replied that she was more than willing to coach.

She hadn't realized just how screwed she was at that particular point in time.

Leo's canvas LL Bean bag is slung over her shoulder and she's set up camp in a corner of the locker room, changing out of her salty, snow-covered boots into her Jordans and settling in to re-read her notes. Mary Margaret had dropped the bag off earlier that morning and had said that Emma was welcome to drive Leo's car or the old, beat-up, bright-ass-yellow, VW Beatle that was in the garage. Emma had opted to borrow the bug car until they could figure out her transportation.

She's suddenly acquired a car and she's really not entirely sure what to do about it. Killian had pointed out that it needed a great deal of work. The paint is fading and the tires are certainly not going to maneuver well in the snow. Emma could careen off the road if she wasn't careful, he'd explained, and then had offered to jury-rig her some chains until she could work out if she could afford snow tires.

The car means a sense of freedom that Emma hasn't felt in years, and she's been pleasantly surprised that her first instinct isn't to run, screaming, from this town that has filled her up with nothing but horrible memories. She thinks that Regina, with her sad smile and her tentative touches, is keeping her here and firmly grounded; and Emma isn't about to argue with that.

Sidney Glass had written an article in the paper before Leo's goddamn obituary had even been published. Emma wants to strangle the man for doing so, but she's glad that it'd been published the day after Christmas and not rushed to be included in the Christmas Day edition. She doesn't think that Leo would have wanted to ruin everyone's Christmas with talk of him dying.

At the top of the LL Bean bag is the little wrapped box that the team had given her, still in as good condition as it'd been when they'd presented it to her a week ago. She hadn't been able to stomach opening it on Christmas Day. It'd been hard enough to look at it and know that somewhere, Leo had had a present just like this one, waiting for him.

Emma bites her lip and swallows. Mary Margaret hasn't asked her if she'd like to speak at the funeral, and Emma isn't really sure that she should. She isn't family, which Emma thinks is part of the problem. She's an outcast, a little girl lost in the great wide world who'd come under Leo's wing for the briefest of moments, only to step away from him and lose herself once more. It doesn't seem right, somehow, to take her personal feelings for Leo and to air them publicly. Emma's never really been one for expressing herself, she chalks that up to her childhood and the constant array of faces that didn't particularly care for her, just the checks that came in the mail for her care.

Sometimes, when Emma's really down on herself, she wonders what it would have been like if that first family had adopted her. She's snooped around enough in the town records during her long hours alone in the library basement where they're kept to know that the paperwork had been started to process her adoption. She knows that they'd discovered they'd been pregnant not long after that, and they'd sent Emma away on a holiday weekend, just as spring turned into summer proper.

It almost makes sense that Emma came back to this place at the same time of year.

Emma remembers that cold house and the feeling of absolute helplessness. She'd been so, so young. She hadn't known what was happening, but she'd kept the secret her entire life. Emma knows she has enough to ruin Regina's mother's hopes of a future in politics in a few well-placed words. Yet she doesn't want to do it. That's never been what she's wanted. She just wants to understand how a woman could become so broken that she'd want to do something like that to a child – her own child, and one of a complete stranger.

Leo had never seen it, and Emma had never mentioned it. The only person who'd ever truly seen how fucked up in the head Emma truly was had been Killian's father, recognizing a kindred soul. He'd given her things to do with her hands, taught her hand-eye coordination on the NES, and had taught her how to shoot a basketball long before Leo had ever met her.

Yet Killian's father had never been her own. Emma's never thought of him that way, even at her lowest points. She thinks of Leo as that person. She's always thought of Leo as that person, because she likes to imagine that her father would have been like Leo. Tough, but fair; he would have raised her into a good person who makes better decisions that Emma has made over the course of her life. Three years when she was a moody teenager desperate to escape this town hadn't been enough. Emma would give anything to have had a lifetime with Leo as her father.

Something more than a coach, more than a friend, that's what Leo had been to her. Now there's just another void that Emma's got to try and fill, and no hope at all of ever closing it.

She's falling into the abyss of this town all over again, she doesn't want to leave. Emma straightens up and reaches for the little box at the top of the LL Bean bag and rips the paper off of it with hands that are steady for the first time in what feels like _years._ It hasn't been years, merely days of monuments change in her life.

Inside, coiled on a Storybrooke purple piece of nylon cord is a whistle. Its… _Christ_, its brand new and gleaming in the harsh fluorescent light of the locker room. Emma picks it up and sees that there's an inscription etched into the side of the whistle. She reads it with reverence she usually reserves for the words of Hemmingway. "To Coach Swan on her inaugural season, 2012-13 Storybrooke High Women's Varsity," something has lodged at the back of Emma's throat. It settles thick and uncomfortable as she struggles to read the words fully.

This is her first season. It's her inauguration as a coach. And she's going to do the best goddamn job she can. Emma slings it around her neck and pulls her warm up jacket more closely around herself. She shoves her notes onto her clipboard and heads out of the locker room, ready as she can ever be for the first practice she's going to host on her own.

The team files in a few minutes later, standing quietly on the baseline once they've changed. Emma's standing at the top of the key, launching shot after shot, waiting for them to arrive; chasing down her own rebounds. When she counts ten bodies, she walks to the middle of the court, ball resting against her side, clipboard tucked carefully under her other arm.

They gather around her, worried and sad faces looking to the one person among them who is probably the most fucked up for emotional support. Emma promises herself to have a good laugh with Killian about _that_ particular fact later, and puts her game face on. "How is everyone doing?" she asks. It's probably a strange question to ask with her eyes drawn and serious as she watches them all.

"Okay," Lisa says and the others echo her sentiments. Bri is oddly quiet; she's usually the most vocal of all the players, arguing with Emma or Leo or both of them over play calling. She's got a head for the game, that's for sure. "It's just crazy to think that he was there and then he was gone… just like that."

Emma nods, because she's dealing with that as well. She drops the ball to rest under her foot, holding it steady like she's seen Henry do in his soccer matches and when he's practicing in Regina's back yard. She folds her arms across her chest, her clipboard jammed uncomfortably against her stomach. "The doctors at the hospital said that there was no telling with something like this. So please don't think that he was hiding something from any of you. It's a risk that everyone's got to deal with, okay? We have to carry on. We've got a good season going on right now. I want to keep winning, for Leo."

They all nod, determination growing across their faces and Emma knows that she's got this. Its three days after Christmas and they're here, not off on vacations with their families. They're here because they want to be and Emma's so, so grateful for their dedication.

Emma spends the first twenty minutes talking about the matchup they have on New Year's Eve. It's a stupid-ass day to schedule a game, but Emma wants to use the fact that it's away and on a holiday to their advantage. "The crowd won't be there," she explains. "And Northlake is really, really bad. I've spent a good deal of time going over Leo's notes on them from last year, and watching film from this year. They don't have consistent guard play and their center is barely five seven. Bri, you and Lisa are both taller than her, which works to our advantage as she plays down to her size, not above it."

The practice that follows is hard and fast. Emma takes them to the football team's weight room afterwards and they don't get to leave until everyone's done at least one pull up. Bri does seven and they're all very impressed until Emma hops up onto the bar and falls back into the easy practice of legs locked and slowly pulling her body up and down and up and down. "What?" she asks, after her eleventh rep, hanging from the bar and staring up at the.

"It's just… god," Ashleigh runs a hand through her dirty blonde bangs and smirks at Emma through her fingers, "Sometimes it's easy to forget that you got all prison fit 'n stuff."

Emma flushes and pulls herself up once more, straining this time as she's going from a dead lift and has no upwards momentum to cannel back into the lift. She lets herself drop as her chin rises up above the bar and she lands with her sore hands on her hips. "We need to be stronger," she explains. "I want to win for Leo and I want to win it _all. _We have the talent to do it and I want to see it real. Starting this week we're going to spend some time here – no lifting, but I do want you guys to be ready for it. Everyone should go home and Google core exercises that you think might help you step your game up." She surveys her team and puts her hand forward. "I'll do anything you guys do, and I have a few ideas of my own." She smirks as she says the last bit and knows that they're intrigued. They put their hands in one by one.

"Team on three," Lisa says and they count as one, echoing "Team!" into the empty void that exists in all of their hearts.

Emma doesn't go into Leo's office after practice. She leaves it just as she found it earlier, shoes slung over one shoulder and the canvas bag over the other. She's got notes and they're practicing in the morning on Monday before Leo's funeral. Emma, like Leo, believes in Sundays off.

She stands at the back door to the gym, the one that goes straight out into the parking lot and flips off the lights one by one. The gym goes dark, only the red glow of the exit sign above her head is illuminated and Emma nods once. She's made her promise now, she'll follow through.

The old VW Beatle, according to Mary Margaret, is Leo's most recent fix-it-up project. He'd been into classic cars for as long as Emma'd known him, longer still by Mary Margaret's telling. It was how her parents had met, apparently. Emma still thinks it's strange that Mary Margaret had a mother, once upon a time. Killian did too, but at least Emma knew the full story there. She was a drunk and had run away on the back some scruffy-looking writer's motorcycle when Killian was four. Emma'd been just removed from the Mills house at the time, and she has no memories of the beautiful dark-haired woman that Killian has always hated with such a passion.

She hasn't driven in ages, and it takes a few tries for the car to crank up. Emma's been really careful with the clutch, no trusting herself after driving automatics exclusively since she'd learned to drive in high school. Leo'd taught her how to do that too. She bites her lip, a well of sadness surging from deep within her. She doesn't know how she's going to handle the funeral.

Emma drives home gingerly, stalling out at the stop sign downtown, the bug lurching forward as she ignores the honk from the Game of Thorns van that's sitting on her ass. Emma resists the urge to flip the guy off and keeps driving back towards the old foundry building. She's been trying to give Regina some space after the night that they'd spent together. She doesn't really know if Regina is okay with it, but she's not about to ask for fear that she isn't. What they'd said to each other that night had been far more than Emma had ever anticipated saying to Regina so early in whatever it was between them.

Maybe it's just that she's driving a borrowed car because she suddenly has the weight of the world sitting on her shoulders. She isn't Atlas and the world weighs far more than Emma could have possibly anticipated.

The apartment is as cold as it is empty. Emma shivers as she steps inside and collapses into a chair to unlace her boots and pull on a sweater and slippers. She feels the chill of the apartment seep into her bones as she steps into the apartment, turning on lights and tossing her keys onto the kitchen island. She's perfectly alone, and the void in her heart that she's been ignoring since Christmas threatens to overwhelm her.

She's standing in the kitchen, her hands clutching at the cold porcelain edges of the sink. Her breath comes in short gasps and she's desperate to keep the air inside her lungs. She's alone, she's so terribly alone. She can't do this. She can't lead this team. She's not ready, she's not worthy.

Bile rises in Emma's chest and she heaves what's left of her lunch into the sink. It comes easily, and Emma wonders if this is what true panic feels like. The shoes she's expected to fill are so huge that Emma doesn't think that she'll ever be able to fill them. Fumbling blindly forward, Emma turns on the sink and gets a hand under the ice cold water that spits out from the faucet. She slurps water into her mouth and spits it out, feeling it dribble down her chin and get into her hair.

She hates that she can't handle this.

Emma twists the faucet off and turns, slumping down against the counter and the cabinets beneath it. The knobs dig into Emma's back and she barks out a harsh noise that could be a wail, had Emma been willing to admit that it was just that. She presses the heels of her hands into her eyes and tries to not fall apart.

Leo is gone. The one person that she'd thought would care about her in this town is just _gone._ His presence is no longer there and Emma can't handle it. He's like Killian, like Regina, like Mary Margaret; he cannot be replaced. Emma has so few people that she can truly call her own that it feels as though she's lost far more than just one person.

From the back pocket of her jeans, her shitty pay as you go phone buzzes and Emma's almost afraid to answer it. Still, she pushes her weight up onto one leg and reaches behind herself, fishing the flip phone from her back pocket and flipping it open. It's Regina's number and Emma does want to talk to her, despite how she's feeling. "Hey," she says. Her voice sounds like she's been crying and she sniffs loudly, brushing damp tendrils of hair away from where they're sticking to her cheeks.

"Are you at Ms. Blanchard's?" Regina asks, and Emma can hear a strange echo in the phone. She looks up glances towards the door, pushing herself to her unsteady feet and heading over to open it.

"Yeah, I'm here," Emma says, but she's already undoing the lock. She can see a shadow cast against the light that's seeping in from the crack under the doorway. She pulls the door open to find Regina in a dark grey pea coat with a bright red scarf wrapped around her neck. Emma closes her phone, hearing it click shut against her ear as she slowly lowers it and tucks it into her pocket once more. "Hi."

Regina shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot and Emma's suddenly very glad that Mary Margaret is trying to sort out Leo's things with David and Ruby and that she isn't here. All she wants to do is wrap her arms around Regina and cling to her like a security blanket. "Can I come in?" Regina asks. She's in the process of tucking her phone into her purse. "I need to..." she trails off and Emma wonders it this is going to be the buildup of another revelation that her mother is coming back to town. It wouldn't really surprise Emma, Leo's been a pillar of the community for as long as anyone can remember. It would make sense for someone, even someone as influential as Cora Mills, to return to pay her respects.

Emma steps aside and crosses over the sink once more. She fills up the kettle without a word and busies herself finding her toothbrush from the travel bag that she'd left dumped by the door earlier. She runs it under the water and gives her mouth a good scrubbing out, trying to spit as discretely as possible.

As she settles herself onto a stool at the kitchen island, Regain raises a curious eyebrow. Emma shrugs, tucking the toothbrush up onto a shelf where she's sure to forget it. "I just got sick," she explains. "My mouth tastes like ass and I didn't want to mix it with tea."

Wrinkling her nose at Emma's language, Regina sighs. Her whole body is wrapped up in the motion and Emma knows that something is bothering her. She purses her lips, watching as Emma retrieves mugs and tea bags and adjusts the stove. "I see," she says.

Silence between herself and Regina has always been easy. Emma's never struggled the way she does with Killian or Mary Margaret, filling the silence with idle chatter. She's just content to sit and be quiet, trapped in her own head and full up on doubts. Somehow, that's easier than talking about things.

It takes until the tea kettle whistles before Regina shrugs off her coat. She's wearing an old v-necked sweater underneath, just faintest hint of something lacy underneath. Emma swallows and concentrates on the tea. The tea she can handle, being distracted by the suggestion of something else seems too much right now.

"Do you still like passion fruit?" Emma asks. She'd found the box at Sprat's what feels like a lifetime ago, fingers trailing over the little plastic-wrapped boxes of too-expensive tea. It had drawn her back to the summer when she'd first met Regina as a teenager, memories of making it on a rainy June day where the temperature didn't get above fifty degrees. They hadn't done much in the way of chemistry then, sitting and watching the surf from the shelter of the library's reading nook that faced the sea. They'd been so young then, faced with what still seems like an impossible situation.

Regina nods, biting at her lower lip and puffing out her cheeks. She looks so small in that sea of that oversized sweater. "I haven't had it in years..." She takes the mug that Emma offers her and flashes a hint of a smile. "I'm sorry to barge in like this; I know you must have just gotten back from practice."

Shaking her head, Emma raises her mug to her lips. It is far too hot to drink still, but the fragrant steam that rises into the air above her is wonderful and smells like the summer that's just a flash in the pan of this never ending Maine winter. "Why're you here?" she asks. Her voice is quiet, and she's trying to convey that she really doesn't mind Regina's presence at all. Regina is probably the one person that Emma doesn't want to hide from at this particular moment. She understands what Emma's going through right now without ever wanting to judge her for encroaching on Mary Margaret's grief.

There is the soft sound of Regina setting her mug down on the rough wood of the kitchen island and Emma looks up to see her pulling her purse towards herself. She rummages around for a few seconds before pulling out a single white envelope. She holds it in between her hands, staring down at the smudged pencil that's labeling it, before she passes it over to Emma.

The grey smudges of pencil span out from where the label, _'Summer, 1986'_ is written in careful letters. Emma swallows, and flips the envelope over. There are photos inside. Two of them. They're battered at the edges and Emma wonders how long they've been in there.

"Wow," she says, pulling them out and leaning closer so that Regina can look too. It's only when she gets them under the light that she can see why Regina's come. There is Emma, standing on one of the rocks that juts up out of the hill over the town. She's got a tank-top on and her arms stretched out on either side of her.

The air rushes out of Emma's lungs as she sees the dark patches on her neck and arms in the picture. Her body is riddled with bruises in this picture; evidence of all that is never talked about with it comes to the discussion of her stay with the Mills family that summer. "What is this," her fingers trail over the dark marks and she wonders when the good senator had ever gotten so careless in her abuse.

Regina is silent, and Emma sets the first photo aside and stares down at the second one. They're both so impossibly young, in bathing suits, standing up to their knees in a tie pool. Emma's holding up a tiny crab and Regina's got seaweed on her head, grinning widely at the camera. And yet here too, the bruises are evident. They're everywhere; on Regina's back where the single braid has slipped over her shoulder hand has given the camera a clear view of the evidence of thin lines.

"What the hell would possess her to take these?" Emma demands. She flips them both over so she won't have to look at them anymore, her stomach turning again. The tea that had once smelled so wonderful is now making her stomach churn uncomfortably and she half stumbles away from the kitchen island, away from the pictures.

"I..." Regina takes the pictures and puts them back into their envelope. She moves quickly and methodically, like she doesn't want to look at them any more than Emma does. "I never knew that she'd..."

Emma scowls. "Of course you knew; she did it right in front of you."

"Because you'd broken a vase!" Regina's hands fly to her hair and she rakes her fingers through it, as though she's trying to calm herself down. "That's the only time I remember," Regina says uncertainly. "She told me that they'd found a better home for you, so you couldn't stay with us any longer."

"Do you believe everything that woman tells you?" Emma demands. The counter is digging into her lower back but she's still somehow not far away enough from Regina. "Why did you show me these?"

"You never told my mother's secret," Regina says. She sighs and fingers the envelope. "You were removed from our house because there was worry about abuse, but you never said a thing about it. Why would you keep that secret? What did you have to lose by telling it?"

Emma shakes her head. She'd hoped - oh how she'd hoped - that she'd never have to explain this to Regina. She doesn't know where to start now, because her reasoning as a child had been different from her reasoning as a young adult and its different still as an adult. "I was nearly four; I didn't understand what had happened to me then." She spits it out like a curse and it almost feels like one. "It wasn't until I was eleven that I really understood what had happened to me." Emma shakes her head, thinking back to that lake and how easily she could have slipped beneath the surface. She could have been free of this town then, but she'd stuck around for more heartbreak.

She always has been a glutton for punishment.

Emma looks down at her hands. "I read a lot as a kid, before I started to play ball. It was the one thing I was better at than everyone else. I read anything I could get my hands on, lived in the library because Mr. Rogers was way more welcoming than most of my foster families - even the okay ones. He gave me this book that was new one day; it was called _Bastard out of Carolina_." It seems so silly now, her grand realization of what had happened. "It's about a girl growing in an abusive household."

Regina looks away. "I know," she says and her voice is tight. "We had to read it in school."

It hurts too much to say it, but she thinks that it has to be said. "I got to leave," she says. "I was taken out of that house, but you had to stay." Emma shifts her weight and bites her lip nervously. "I never told because I didn't want it to get worse for you. I didn't want you to end up like me."

"My father-" Regina begins, but Emma shakes her head.

"He was never there, was he? He probably knew what was going on, but he did nothing to stop it. He just shipped you off to boarding school as soon as he could, right?" Emma watches as Regina's jaw clenches and unclenches, knowing she has nothing to say to what's being said. "He did the right thing."

"Emma, you weren't even a part of the family and she did that, how can you..." Regina blinks furiously, as if to force down tears, "How can you possibly ever forgive me for that?" She taps her finger on the envelope. "I found that in an old book of my father's earlier today. I think he knew that someday you - I - one of us might want proof. My mother destroyed all the others with the pictures of Daniel from when we were younger."

It's easy then, to close her eyes and to not think about what Regina's saying; to let the meaning fly over her head and not follow the thread of logic. But Emma can't do it; she's tried and tried to ignore this. Dan had just been a face about town, someone she'd never quite allowed herself to hate because he made Regina happy. She'd never really known him; never known him enough for him to be Daniel, at any rate.

"She destroyed the pictures?" Emma asks, still keeping her distance. She doesn't know why Regina's here, why she thought that showing this to her now of all fucking times was a good idea. There's pile at the back of her throat and she's trying to hold onto herself long enough to force down the urge to vomit. "Of you and Daniel?"

Regina nods slowly, and then she reaches for her tea. Emma watches her throat work as she swallows, and can see that it's difficult. "Thinking about Leo's death, I found myself remembering my father. When I found those pictures, I realized that maybe it wasn't some sort of catharsis after his death, what my mother did." She looks down into the tea cup, tugging ideally on the string that Emma'd wrapped around the handle. "When my father died my mother... I don't know what happened to her. I wasn't living at the house then, and I came over as soon as I found out. She was sitting in the living room, family photo albums all around her, burning picture after picture. I have some copies, but most of them were there... a lifetime of memories... gone." She swallows again and her breath rattles around in her chest. "Henry's baby pictures, my wedding pictures, and pictures of what might have been."

"Pictures of me," Emma says stiffly. She knows then that it was an accident, that even though it seems so suspicious that there is no way anyone would wish that much death upon their family.

"I never kept them," Regina says. "It was too painful." She picks up the envelope and stares down at what has to be her father's handwriting. "I don't think my mother knows that he saved any of these."

"Then why show them to me?" Emma asks. She's got her arms wrapped around herself and she feels like a total fool. Regina has terrible timing, but it seems to Emma that her reasoning is sound. "Why now of all fucking times?"

Her shoulders slumping, Regina sighs. She pushes the envelope with one finger into her purse and bridges her fingers together around her crossed legs. "I... I don't know. I found them and I thought - I stupidly thought that you'd want to see them."

Maybe it's because Emma's had enough of alienating people who make her feel emotions, but she pushes herself forward and steps towards Regina. If its revelation time, Emma's got one of her own, and it's one that she thinks Regina needs to hear to understand why she's never told.

"When I read that book, I realized what had happened to me in that house. I went up to the lake," she gestures vaguely to where the lake (which is really far more of a pond) is located, up over the hill and away from town. "And I tried to sink down into the water there."

There's a pallor that comes over Regina's face then. She's gifted with her father's skin, olive-colored and gorgeous even with then winter pale sets in for most people. Now though, she looks as white as Emma, shock coloring her features. "You... you were a child."

"No one would have missed me," Emma takes another step forward, her hands resting on top of where Regina's are bridged on her knees. "I had no Leo then, no Killian - shit, not even Killian's fucking dad at that point. I had Beth the worthless social worker and the harsh reality that no family in town wanted me. Mrs. Hubbard's group home got real old after a while." Regina's hands are shaking under Emma's fingers and she keeps her gaze steady. "They'd just told me I was being shunted away again, into a new home that could take me for a while. Not permanently, mind you, never permanently. And I just wanted it to stop."

"But you didn't..." Regina starts.

"No, I didn't," Emma confirms. Her cheeks are burning when she admits this next bit, her deepest secrets are all bubbling up to the surface today, it seems. "I thought about you and how even though I threw off the balance in your house, you always welcomed me. I was not even four years old, but still I knew that you were there and that you would feel sad if I wasn't there anymore."

Emma bites her lip and meets Regina's brown-eyed gaze evenly, daring her to say anything about how she was only eleven at the time, and how the hell could she possibly know then? The accusation never comes, just sadness and comprehension and the steady breath in the cold air of this poorly insulated apartment.

"I wasn't sad when you left, Emma," Regina's voice comes evenly. It rises with the steam of the tea into the air. A promise of all that was, is, and could be between them. "I was heartbroken."

"I was a fool," Emma says. She's lied to herself for so long about Regina that it's finally to the point where she thinks she can be honest. "Permanence isn't a thing I really get."

"I'd figured," Regina says dryly. She's curled her fingers up to wrap around Emma's, twining them together, stripes of skin that blend into one fully entity. They fit together so well, and Emma knows that she's always been a fool in that moment. "I didn't want to upset you, but I... I wanted you to see them and I thought that you would have wanted to see them as soon as possible."

Emma tilts forward on slipper'd toes and presses her lips to Regina's forehead. "I'm not angry at you," she says quietly. "It's just... those are a lot of memories for me."

When Regina nods her agreement and relaxes somewhat into the loose hug that Emma's pulled her into, Emma knows that they're going to be okay. She bites a bit of loose skin on her lip and buries her nose in Regina's hair. She smells of sunlight still, even in the dreary depths of a Maine winter just underway. And it is peaceful.

Emma doesn't go home with Regina that night, retreating to her cold bedroom and settling into an uneasy sleep instead. Leo's funeral is going to be a challenge and all she can think about as she counts the exposed beams of raw wood in the ceiling over and over again is that it's going to be a goodbye she's not sure she can stomach.

She's scarcely awake when Killian arrives to collect her, inspecting the yellow Beatle outside and humming his approval. "You're gonna need snow tires on that wicked bad," he says quietly. He's got a cup of coffee in his hand from the diner and a suit on that looks like it's the same one he graduated high school in. The tie, at least, is new.

Emma's wearing dark blue because she doesn't own a funeral-appropriate black dress. The sweater dress goes down to her knees and she's wearing grey knit tights under her boots. "I feel underdressed," she says as she shrugs on her jacket and liberates one of Mary Margaret's chunky-knit scarves from the rack. She wraps it around her neck and zips up her jacket before taking the coffee from Killian with a raised eyebrow. "None for you?"

"I have one in the car," he explains. He fiddles with his hook for a second before letting it drop to the ground. "And no second hand to carry."

Inclining her head, Emma ushers him out of the apartment and back down the stairs and out of the foundry building. His truck is idling, exhaust from the muffler rising with steam into the frigid morning air. "I'm not ready for this," Emma says quietly.

She's never been to a funeral of a person that was closed to her before, but she's been to so many in her life now that it seems like a regular occurrence. Not recently, but growing up. People in Storybrooke lived here and they died here; a never ending cycle of small town America.

"No one ever is, Emma," Killian replies. There's a strange note in his voice and Emma knows that it's because he's done this before, just like Emma, for a father who'd forsaken him. "No one ever is."

They pick up Billy from his house on the outskirts of town before circling back to the high school. Billy's put his car into storage until he can get back from Newfoundland in March - and is carless until Killian drives him to the airport on Thursday. Emma sits between them and listens to them as they chat about the projected catch this season and if Billy thinks that he can make it through without too many near-death experiences.

It's all so very mundane and Emma wants to say that she hates it already. Today should be about Leo and his family. The family that Emma is not a part of.

They sit in the back, the three of them all in a row. Emma can see David Nolan sitting with Kathryn and not with Mary Margaret and her heart aches. This is about appearances. Regina is sitting with Henry, alone and by herself. Her mother is nowhere in sight, thank Christ.

There is no body, which was Leo's wish. There is only a small urn, containing all that is left of him. It's pewter and ornate in design, gorgeous when Emma looks more closely.

A lump wells up at the base of Emma's throat and she tries to force herself to make sure that yes, one by one, the entire team comes in. Something strange is happening. They're coming up to her, touching her shoulder and trying to keep themselves together. And it's not just them. Emma sees girls from her own teams, kids from the rec leagues, people who have been touched by this man.

In the middle of it all, Mary Margaret sits alone. Her mother is long gone, and now her father is gone as well. The only child of only children she's alone in the world, mourning a father beloved by so many.

And Emma's heart breaks all over again.

She leans against Killian's shoulder touches his hand. "I'm sorry that I didn't come home for your dad's funeral," she says quietly into a lull in the conversation. Billy shifts on her other side, but is silent.

Killian's jaw is tight, but he turns and manages almost a smile. "It's hard to be eighteen and trying to deal with something like this; be grateful that Mary Margaret's got a few years on that."

"I..." Emma begins, but Killian shakes his head, effectively cutting her off.

"I understand why you didn't come back, Emma," He puffs out his cheeks as he says it, and nudges her with his shoulder. "I don't blame you, I don't think I could have handled it very well either."

"Still," Emma replies, her eyes prickling at the corners as salty tears sting the chapped skin there. "I'm sorry all the same." Killian squeezes her hand and they sit in silence until the end of the service.

They all end up sitting in the living room of the empty bed and breakfast later, a bottle of vodka that Ruby'd found somewhere being passed around between them. Mary Margaret is leaning against David Nolan, but her hand is clenched around Emma's own. Jim's here, but Kathryn isn't. Emma supposes that that's probably too weird for her still.

She's drunkenly rambling about how this one time, Leo threatened to make her run around the whole goddamn island to prove a point.

"Would you have done it?" Jim demands, leaning forward and pulling the bottle from her hands. He takes a swig and makes a face before handing it to Killian who tilts it back with a wink in Jim's direction and far too many lewd slurping noises for the rest of them.

They pelt him with pillows and socks and empty paper cups from earlier.

"Probably," Emma admits. She glances towards Mary Margaret, catching hers red-rimmed eyes and smiling, "I would have done anything for your dad. He was sort of like my dad too."

"I know, Em," Mary Margaret says, pulling herself away from David and flopping onto Emma. Emma holds her tight, never wanting to let her go. She's been so sad, so fragile, and Emma understands it. She can be a pillar of support for Mary Margaret, just as Mary Margaret has been a pillar of support for her.

She's not used to being the strong one, but she thinks she could be okay at it. It is in that moment, slightly drunk and surrounded by good friends, that Emma decides that she's going to stay in Storybrooke, once the season is done.

_"Tell me a piece of your history _  
_ that you've never said out loud._  
_ Pull the rug beneath my feet _  
_ and shake me to the ground._  
_ Wrap me around your fingers,_  
_ break the silence open wide,_  
_ and before it seeps into my ears,_  
_ it fills me up from the inside."_

- Bastille

* * *

Hey guys, while I know that a great number of you are reading this story, there's been a fairly lackluster response on the most recent chapter, let me know what you like or don't like about what I'm doing here. Constructive criticism and the like is fuel for the soul and helps the writer to improve their skills. :)

Soundtrack : 8 tracks dot com anamatics/the-return-ost


	13. Chapter 13

**The Return**

_a fanfic by anamatics_

* * *

**Chapter Twelve - Pie Crust Promises (Jan 23, 2013)**

**_"_**_Maybe we can't change the world but __  
I wanna love you the best that, the best that I can, yeah  
Hold my hand  
Want you to hold my hand  
Hold my hand"_

- Hootie & The Blowfish

Athletics are founded on routine, and by habit. They're all about doing the same things day after day to create habits and translate those habits into performances on the court. Emma has spent her entire life falling in and out of carefully regimented routines. She sets them up without even thinking, moving in and out of her day-to-day life knowing that the future is only as certain as she is predictable.

They've lost one game since Leo's death, against a non-divisional opponent that far out classed them in almost every category. They're undefeated within their division, and Emma's fielding calls from schools about Bri and Lisa. They're being recruited, like Emma'd been all those years ago.

She feels hear heart swell with pride when she speaks to the coach from Hartford - the coach who _remembers_ the championship run from eight years ago - and tells her a bit about Bri's numbers and her measurable statistics and overall player ability. Bri's tearing it up right now, and Emma knows that she could translate it into a ticket out of Storybrooke, out of Maine and maybe even New England. Emma wants that for her, because Bri is so much bigger than this place.

Emma's spent the morning not watching tape or preparing for practice. It's the first time since Leo's death that she hasn't ventured into the basement of the library to use their TV. She's spent the morning sitting in the corner of the conference room down the hall from Kathryn Nolan's office, helping Killian set up the projector and video conferencing system that they've borrowed from the high school.

"Are you ready for this?" Killian asks, jabbing the power button of Kathryn's laptop with his thumb and positing it so that the end of the table is clearly visible to the webcam that they've attached to the top of it. "Billy said that you'd told him you weren't sure it was going to work."

Crossing her arms across her chest, Emma snorts. "Billy's got a big mouth," she says pointedly. He's been gone for close to two weeks now, off to Canada when there's more money than god to be made, provided you don't fall off the boat in the process. "And all I said to him was that I was worried that this wasn't going to work out. The judge's a wicked hard ass and he's been dragging his feet something fierce on this. This is the second time we've tried to do this."

"Oh, I am aware," Killian waggles his eyebrows and blinks at the computer. He's only got one hand to operate it, but it's going pretty smoothly. Especially when he's got his hook on his hip like he's some sideshow clown. Emma resists the urge to smile. She doesn't think it's right and her nerves are getting to her. "I think I have this set up correctly this time, at least."

"I'll have Kathryn check it when she gets in," Emma says. She's tugging at the sleeves of the slightly too short blazer she's wearing and worrying at her lip. The anxiety that's twisted into a painful knot at the base of her stomach has only intensified as the day goes on. The blazer is Mary Margaret's, old and vintage and probably from that thrift shop up in Bar Harbor that she likes so much. Emma'd thought about asking Regina, but it just seems wrong, somehow, to ask for something like that. Mary Margaret is more her size, anyway, Regina's got less in the shoulders and more in the breasts. It's a better fit for Emma, just not Emma's clothes.

She sighs and leans back against the wall, her arms crossed over her chest. She's trying to ignore the ache of her muscles and the bags under her eyes that she's smeared far too much concealer over in the bathroom just now.

She isn't sleeping, not really anyway. She's making pie crust promises to herself like it's going out of style. Promising herself that she'll stop lying to herself about how nervous she is, and how she wishes that she could stop ending up on Regina's doorstep, desperate and alone. She promises herself she won't knock, she won't wake Regina up, but somehow Regina's always there and pulls her inside without complaint.

They're doing more than fooling around now. Emma's breaking another promise to herself. She'd sworn that she was going to be respectful of Regina's (apparently imagined) need for space.

And somehow, it all feels heavier.

"Do you think that you'll be able to get through this?" Killian asks. His tone is mild, but he knows Emma better than most people do. He's able to pick up on her moods and know when she's really not coping as well with the stress that she's under. "I mean... It's your freedom."

Emma stands stock still, worrying at her lip as the laptop boots and the camera comes to life and she's face to face with the blank grey background. The Skype icon is just below the trashcan and she wants, desperately wants, to delete the program and be done with it. If it isn't there, she won't have to face this.

Killian steps forward, his hand resting on Emma's shoulder and pulling her into an awkward, one-armed hug. He smells like the sea and wood smoke from the stove that heats his house; like home and comfort and everything that Emma still isn't quite sure that she deserves. "You'll be fine," he promises when Emma gives a slight hiccup and tries to back away. "You're a fighter."

Fighting is what she's been raised to do. Fight and scrape and bargain for every bone that's thrown her way. She rests her forehead against Killian's shoulder. "I told Regina not to come, today."

"They're not going to ask for character references?" he sounds more curious than anything else and when Emma shrugs, he offers to stick around. "I haven't got anywhere to be until three, anyway," he explains.

"No, it's okay," Emma replies. If it comes to that, she knows who she wants her references to be already. She and Kathryn have discussed it with the principal of the high school and Regina if it truly comes to that. She wants the references to be coming from people who she doesn't have strong connections with, people who can look past her and be objective about the would thing. "We were going with David Nolan and Mrs. Hanneway anyway - they're both relative outsiders who didn't know me before I came back." Emma lowers her voice conspiratorially. "Kathryn actually suggested Mr. Spencer as well."

"But he's an arse," Killian says while he shakes his head. "I can do it if you want, Emma, but I get why you'd want objective people involved."

"Yeah, it sucks, but I'm glad you understand," Emma rubs at the back of her neck and backs away from Killian's hug.

Kathryn's come into the room, an arm full of papers and is wearing leggings with thick wooly socks and a smart business suit jacket and blouse. Emma wonders if this is just because they're going to be sitting, she wants to be comfortable - since this is fake court anyway. "Mr. Jones," she says, offering him a hand. He sweeps away from Emma to take her hand and allows her to set down all of the papers in her arms before he smiles charmingly at her.

"Do your best," he says earnestly. "For Emma and for the rest of us. She fell off my boat, in November! I can't have such a liability on my crew if she can be doing other work."

"Hey!" Emma protests. "I didn't mean to fall off."

"Oh, I know," he laughs. "You have the sea in your veins, that's for sure."

Kathryn watches them laugh with a mild expression on her face. Since they've met each other, Emma's learned that it takes a lot to set Kathryn into anything that could be considered a mood; she's even-keeled and hard to upset unless one tries really hard. Emma likes that about her, because it means that she can take Killian's good-natured ribbing for what it so transparently is. He's trying to draw her mind off of things, trying to put her back into the moment without pulling her aside and promising her things that he cannot deliver upon.

"Are you ready for this?" Kathryn asks. She settles the stack of papers around her in a way that looks prepared and professional, watching as Emma crosses the room and pulls Killian into a hug. She's in borrowed clothes, just like the last time, but at least she's not scared and alone. She nods to Killian, who salutes her with his ridiculous hook and leather jacket, before turning on his heel and walking out of the conference room.

"I think so," Emma lies, and another promise to herself crumbles around her. She's trying to be more confident, to channel Leo when she cannot think of anything else to do. Leo would never back down from a fight, or a bad call, he got T'ed up more times than Emma (or Leo had) cared to admit, but it was all for a good cause. He fought for the kids on the team because he had to, he was their leader and he had to make sure that they were cared for to the best of his ability. He had to do this even if it meant, like that one memorable time, he'd gotten ejected from the game and they'd ended up playing man defense for the rest of the night because the assistant coach at the time had been a total moron.

Emma has to be like Leo now, because this is her future.

The judge in Oregon has been incredibly understanding regarding the fact that they're three hours ahead of him and in Maine. There's an entire country between them, and somehow, as the Skype call rings, Emma can't help but feel like it's not far enough. She's face to face with the man who ruined her life, once upon a time, and she can hardly bring herself to keep from recoiling away. Kathryn's got her hand on Emma's leg, stilling it as it starts to bounce nervously as Kathryn makes pleasantries and waits while the judge starts his recording program. Kathryn's is already running in the background.

"This is highly unusual," the judge says with a chuckle. He's a round-faced man with dimples at the corners of his mouth. His hair is shaggy and graying, swept back with gel that makes him look menacing, rather than the youthful Emma is pretty sure that he'd been going for. The years haven't been kind to him, Emma realizes, when she'd first met him, he'd been significantly less gray about the ears. "But the circumstances dictate that we should do it this way."

Kathryn inclines her head, "Thank you for your consideration, sir."

Emma shifts, the whole world seeming to have come down to this one moment. Kathryn is a warm presence beside her, reassuring as she speaks though her points and talks about how Emma has established herself with a support network here in town and how she thinks that it would work a lot better for Emma in the future if there were less obstacles to her achieving gainful employment.

It's hard to think about how much she's bounced around, watching faces and names and the people of her life drift in and out. She'd lied to herself about Regina for so long that she'd almost convinced herself that it wasn't real, and Regina's hurt eyes haunt her even now.

"Well, Ms. Swan, what have you been up to for the past few years?" The judge asks the question and Emma visibly swallows. She doesn't know how to explain what she's been doing; just that she's never shaken the feeling of being an abject failure at everything.

Kathryn touches her thigh, steadying it from its bounce, and nods once. They've talked about this. They've planned this down to every angle, every second, every last moment. She has to demonstrate who she is to the judge and explain to him why the record has become a scar on her life that she can never escape.

"I've been traveling," Emma begins, picking out with her fingers where she wants to begin. "When I was released I had my bus ticket printed up for Vegas. I wanted to go somewhere where I could be completely anonymous after being in prison, you know?" The judge nods and makes a note, and Emma bites her tongue. "I got a job in a diner out the edge of the city. We got truckers, mostly, a few tourists. I think I worked there for six months before they realized that I had a record and told me I couldn't work there anymore. I'd saved up some money, plus I had the settlement money, so I bought a bus ticket to St. Paul and lived in a sustainable energy community -"

"Come again?" The judge asks and Emma glances over to Kathryn, her eyes wide and fearful.

Kathryn nods encouragingly and Emma sits up a little straighter and begins to explain once more. "A sustainable energy community. We tried to have as small a carbon footprint as possible, it was pretty cool, but I couldn't find a job and eventually left. I got another job waiting tables in Chicago, which lasted nearly a year before someone googled my name and I got found out again."

"Did you ever lie on a job application?" The judge asked, leaning forward slightly. It's a reasonable question to ask, and one that Emma's been prepared to answer for some time now. She's never actively lied on any legal document and she's never left anything out. It's more of a situation of, they didn't ask and Emma didn't tell. She thinks that's a totally reasonable thing to do, honestly. She's just worried that it won't seem that way to anyone who hasn't been in her shoes and understands just what sort of desperation breeds the want to lie in the first place.

Emma shook her head. "No, sir, I didn't. These jobs were all word-of-mouth. There was never a formal application process. I filled out a W4 in Vegas, but the restaurant in Chicago paid me under the table. I paid my taxes on my tips, before you ask."

"I have the records right here, Ms. Swan," The judge chuckles and Emma's heart aches for the other grouchy old men in her life. Leo's gone now, though, and while Leroy is older and definitely grumpy, he's way more of Mary Margaret's friend than Emma's. She's been dubbed his homebrew tester, however, and Emma's pretty sure that pork spices should never go into beer, ever. "And I have done my homework on your case. It seems like you've been trying to find yourself for a while?"

"I think that's a good way to put it," Emma agrees. "I spent some time in Knoxville and then I moved on to Raleigh before I finally realized that I needed more help than I could provide myself." She looks down at her hands and sighs. This is over a webcam, it sounds tinned and somehow insignificant, but this is her life. "I came back here because it's the only place where I still have roots and I was getting sick of not having any."

"And now you're working for the high school there?"

"Yes," Kathryn cuts in smoothly and Emma shoots her a grateful glance. "Ms. Swan was offered an assistant's post on the basketball team here, a job she has since inherited when the coach suffered a fatal heart attack."

"I'm very sorry to hear that," The judge replies and Emma's shocked to hear a hint of kindness and actual, real-sounding remorse in his voice. She didn't know that people were capable of empathy, especially a judge who sent people to jail on a daily basis. It didn't seem real, somehow. "And this position is steady?"

"When the season ends I'll probably go back to helping out on my friend's lobster boat," Emma explains. "And then I was thinking about taking on the summer camps that Leo used to teach about fundamentals - of basketball that is." She shrugs then, borrowed jacket riding up her shoulders and scratching at her ears uncomfortably. It's probably from the 80s, buried in some thrift store that Mary Margaret found. Because she's good like that and Emma's pretty sure that if she doesn't scratch that itch soon she's gonna go nuts. She takes a deep breath and pulls herself back to the moment. "The reason I want to expunge my record is so that I can be a legitimate employee of the school district. Because of Leo's-" and she chokes up, the words dying in her chest as she says them. She's never actually said them, and she's choked up and her eyes dart desperately to Kathryn, who smoothly segues into discussing their reasoning for trying to get her record expunged.

Emma tunes it out, for the most part, pressing the palms of her hands into her eyes again and trying to force herself to think straight. Leo's been dead for a month now. The team is rolling through the conference. Emma wants to feel like she's carrying on well. She wants to feel a lot of things. She doesn't think she's holding herself together very well at all.

However, Emma thinks of Leo and what he would have wanted from her in this moment. He'd wish that she'd concentrate on what was going on, probably. Emma sniffs to cover up a quiet chuckle and looks up at the screen once more. The judge is looking at some papers, there's a pen in one hand and he's ticking off what looks to be a checklist as Kathryn talks, slowly and steadily.

It's strange really, that Emma's found herself back in this town and wanting to stay. She'd promised herself, initially, that she would only stay long enough to get herself back on her feet, but she knew now that there was more to it than this. Storybrooke was the sort of town that drew its residents into its perpetual cycle of hell. You never wanted to leave after a while it seemed.

"I can fax you the paperwork?" Kathryn asks with a pleasant tone in her voice. She's smiling, wide and triumphant. The judge is shuffling the papers in front of him, setting them into a neat stack. He looks up and meets Kathryn's eyes with a pleasant smile all of his own.

Emma feels that smile, even though it's pixelated and small. She feels the surge of approval well up within her and she finds herself smiling brightly back at the judge, even though the smile is directed not at her, but at her lawyer. She feels as though she's waited almost eight years for this sort of acceptance, for the understanding that this had never been her fault in the first place.

The perfect patsy.

No matter how many time she thinks about it, Emma hates how easily she'd allowed Neal to manipulate her. She'd been so desperate to forget, completely absorbed in her need to be a person that wasn't some nobody from Storybrooke, Maine. Neal had swept in with a charming smile and had chased all the regret from Emma's mind. She could be a new person with him, one who wasn't ruled by a terrible childhood and the misfortune of falling in love with the wrong person at the wrong time.

And she'd almost been able to forget, to downplay how she felt about Regina into nothing more than the woman who'd tutored her to get her a passing grade in Chemistry and Biology. She'd almost managed to fool herself, with Neal, even though it had all been a lie.

"Thank you," Emma says to Kathryn later, when they're sitting in her office, feet up on the desk and a bottle of wine between them. Emma's not much for wine, but she'll drink it because Kathryn's offered and she does feel like celebrating. "I had no idea it would be so easy."

Kathryn shrugs, straw colored hair falling over her shoulders against the coal grey of her sweater like sunlight creeping into the darkest of spaces. "There's a lot of precedent - mostly for drug related cases, but it's easy to point out where judges have done similar things for the wives, girlfriends, and probably even the drug runners of much bigger fish." She tilts her head back, and her smile is easy and kind. Emma feels the wine's buzz at the back of her head and she can't help but feel that even though she's sitting here celebrating the expunging of her record that she's still out of place.

She's the fallen son, the failed child who has come crawling back to what is known and what is easy when everything else blew up in her face. And yet, here, in this moment, she feels joy at that failure and she doesn't understand why.

She knows that Kathryn helped her to distract from her own, personal problems. Her divorce is final now, and there's starting to be signs everywhere that both she and David have moved on. Jim isn't afraid to be seen with Kathryn in public any more, and people don't whisper behind their hands nearly as much as they used to if Mary Margaret and David go hiking together.

The entire town knows that Kathryn cheated, though, and Emma wonders if doing this was her penance. Perhaps this is Kathryn's attempt to find redemption from her own perceived slight against the town. Emma hates that mentality, because small towns are so irritatingly insular that something as innocuous as falling out of love with someone is under a microscope from the first stirrings of problems. They blame Jim more so than Kathryn, but Emma has seen the judgmental old ladies down at the diner and at Sprat's sometimes, looking at Jim and Kathryn together and shaking their heads.

They make Emma want to scream, sometimes, because they're all so closed-minded.

"I sort of hate this town," Emma says after Kathryn refills her glass and raises it in toast.

"Oh?" Kathryn says, eyebrows shooting up. "Why? Is it the smell? Or the fact that no one can get the hell out of here?"

Emma sticks out her lower lip and chews on it thoughtfully, debating actually drinking the wine in her glass. She probably shouldn't. She still has to get home and tell Mary Margaret how things went. She'll see Regina later, she knows, she can hardly sleep alone these days.

"They're so... judgy," Emma says eventually and Kathryn throws her head back and laughs, long and loud. It feels good to hear her happy, and Emma grins widely.

"It's a small town, Em, it's sort of how it goes," Kathryn glances at her watch and making an almost comical face of alarm at it at it before downing the rest of her wine glass. "Speaking of, I have to go give them something to talk about."

Emma tilts her head to the side. "What?"

"David and I are having dinner tonight. We were always better as friends, even in high school." She laughs and then shakes her head, reaching for the wine cork. "I have no idea why we got married. Guess it was the thing to do after college, since we'd stayed together that long."

"Guess so," Emma mumbles, downing the rest of her wine and reaching for her coat. She pulls it on over Mary Margaret's stupid itchy jacket and scowls as the tag starts to scratch at the base of her neck. "You'll have the town all a twitter before the night's out," she adds with a grin.

Kathryn catches her arm at the door and smiles widely at her. "Thank you for letting me work on this case. It... Well, I guess it provided a good enough distraction that I was able to be objective about what was happening between myself and David."

The smile that Emma returns is small, mostly because she is fully aware of how it must look, to take charity like this. The town will probably talk of nothing else until she wins another five games in a row or something equally insane. "Thank you," she says again. "I don't think I could have done this without your help."

"I think you'd be surprised," Kathryn quips, gathering her coat and slipping her feet into the salt-splattered pair of winter boots that have been drying over the air vent since this morning. "You're pretty capable, Emma, just look at the basketball team."

Emma supposes that she's right. The team is rolling and will probably win the regular season in two weeks. After that, it's the playoffs and anyone's guess. She's always hated the playoff system, but she knows that doing well in it will be good for Bri and for Lisa. She's still a little bit in awe at some of the schools that are looking at Bri – and seriously looking at that. Bri's numbers are outstanding and she's got a chance to play at a really high level if Emma plays it right. She's been spending half of her time trying to remember her own recruitment, and how Portland State had been able to win her over. Bri hasn't taken any official trips yet, she's said that she's waiting until after the season is done. Emma just hopes that she actually gets to see some games.

Her mind is wrapped up in thoughts of the team and the missed calls and voicemails that are left unheard on Leo's desk phone at the high school. Emma doesn't know his password and she doesn't want to know it. That is his space, she won't trespass there.

Besides, the team is totally cool with Emma running her office out of the basement of the library most days anyway. A lot of the team has younger siblings in Killian's after school program, so even the parents are behind the idea of Emma working there since she hasn't got a TV at home to watch film on.

With a nod and a grin at Kathryn's bright smile, Emma heads out. She leaves Kathryn to lock up and picks her way back towards the old Foundry building, knowing that Mary Margaret (and probably Killian) will be waiting for the results of the hearing. She's texted them already, telling them the short version of events, but there's this nagging feeling that she really shouldn't be telling anyone over a text.

She knows that they're going to want to see her, but somehow... somehow it doesn't seem right to go to them first. Emma's boot plants itself into a snow bank and she turns, a glance at her watch telling her that it's five thirty and knowing that there's a good chance that Regina's still at her office.

There's no practice today, Mondays are usually their day off. They play again on Thursday and then on Monday of next week; but it's the Monday game that Emma's worried about. If they win on Thursday, which shouldn't be a problem, a win on Monday will put them four games ahead of anyone else in their conference.

The City Hall is covered in snow, and the windows are mostly dark. There are a few lights on here and there, but the building just looms large and dark. Emma almost wants to swallow nervously as she slips through the door and into the building. It smells like an elementary school, it always has; the scent of old crayons and damp rugs permeates everywhere. Emma wonders if she lifts up the floorboards if she'll find a stash of crayons as old as the building itself, the wax melted into a swirl of color along the pipes.

Regina's office door is cracked open, and she's sitting in a pool of light from her desk lamp. Her fingers are tangled in her bangs as she reads a report, her lips pursed and her brow creased. Emma nudges the door open with her foot, sticking her head in. "Hey," she says. She knocks after the fact, as the door swings open and Regina looks up sharply. Her expression softens as she sees Emma, and Emma scoots around the door and closes it behind her.

"How'd it go?" Regina sets her paper down and pushes the stack before her into a more neat and orderly pile with her index finger. Emma knows that she's trying to sound blasé, and she's glad that she came here first. Regina wants to know, Emma knows that she does, and she's tempted to play coy with Regina, just to see what will happen.

Emma jams her hands into her pants pockets, standing in the middle of Regina's office and smiling at her. She's caught up, thinking of that summer day what felt like ages ago, when Regina had told her to go see Kathryn. She wonders if Regina will feel vindicated at the news. "My record is expunged; they're signing the paperwork tomorrow, probably. After that it's a two week wait for all the federal and state database's to update and remove my arrest record from their systems."

A smile blossoms at Regina's lips and Emma finds herself grinning brightly back at her, Regina's large desk separating them. Emma shifts from foot to foot and her grin widens. "So you were never arrested."

"Not according to the cops and any background check service that knows how to use google," Emma replies. She chuckles at the idea, but she knows that it's still a really big concern. Everyone googles people these days, it's bound to be a problem at some point in the future. "Kathryn thinks that I should talk to Mr. Glass at the Mirror and do sidebar sort of a piece if the season continues as it's going. She thinks that getting the word out publicly will help to establish that I... I guess that I turned my life around." Emma rubs at the back of her neck, feeling stupid even saying it in that way.

Regina stands, gathering her stack of papers and tucking them into her briefcase, logging off of her computer with one hand. "It's a good idea," she says, zipping the leather case shut. She stands there for a moment, her hands resting on top of it, just looking at Emma. There's a tension about neck and shoulders that sets Emma on edge and she wonders if it's because of the implications of what a clean record means for her. "I'm happy for you." Regina says with an almost sad smile.

"Thanks," Emma says.

There's a look in Regina's eyes that sets Emma on edge somehow. Like she knows that Emma's been thinking about what this all means, like she's thought about it too. Emma hates that Regina even has to question her, but she's got a history of running from things when they get too hard and complicated. She knows that this is what she deserves.

Regina looks down and fiddles with the zipper on her briefcase. "Are you going to leave then, since you're free of the burden of your own poor choices?"

Even though she'd been expecting it, Emma winces. If there's anyone who would treat such happy news with trepidation, it would be Regina. "I..." Emma starts, swallowing as the words swell up and get stuck in her throat. She knows that Regina's just barely managing to ask her question without losing her cool, and Emma knows she shouldn't stumble. The words tumble from her lips, unbidden and angry. The emotion of the day all wrapped up in one outburst. "I did that once, I would never do it again. I swear it."

"That's a pie crust promise," Regina says quietly. "Easily made and broken."

"You have _got_ to stop watching that movie," Emma retorts, folding her arms over her chest and scowling. Regina glowers at her from behind the shadow of her bangs, fallen into her eyes and making her look far more upset than she sounds. "I don't want to leave, seriously. For the first time in my life I like my life. I like what I'm doing right now, what I did over the summer with Killian was great too. The school board probably wants me to take over for Leo. You're here. Mary Margaret's here. I have... god, I have you and I never dreamed that I could have you."

She deserves the doubt, because she's always run away from her problems. Regina most of all.

"I think I'm falling in love with you," Emma continues, babbling now, not really following what she's saying. She just knows that it's the truth and it has to be said. "Again, I mean. I really think that this has a shot at working, and I want to... I want to see it through."

Regina looks up at her, eyes dark and unreadable. "Are you certain?" She looks down, her cheeks coloring a bit. "I told myself that I'd never let myself fall for you again. And yet here we are…"

Emma nods. She takes a step forward, and then another, circling around Regina's desk and coming to stand in front of her. Regina's breath is warm against her cheek and her fingers reach forward to grab the lapel of Emma's jacket. Her hand is shaking, and Emma places her hand on top of Regina's. "I am."

And when Regina kisses her, Emma wraps her free arm around Regina's shoulders and draws her in tight. She's afraid that she'll let go, and that this will all be another of her horrible dreams, a forgotten moment as soon as she's woken up. She can't have that. This isn't a pie-crust sort of a promise. This is a future that stretches out forever, if Regina will have her.

Emma hates that she's back here, sometimes, but most of the time, she really thinks that she can live with it.

_"Take me home tonight__  
I don't want to let you go 'til you see the light  
Take me home tonight"_

- Eddie Money

* * *

Initially, I had intended for this story to span from May 2012-May 2013, but the more that I thought about it and got into writing it, I realized that if I did that, the story would become as redundant as small-town life. I then began to try and figure out another decent end point.

I wrote this chapter intending that there would be one more that would follow this one, but I really didn't like the way that this chapter felt with the idea of that chapter following it, if that makes any sense at all. This chapter gave me fits regardless, and I think that that was a huge part of why.

I suppose that in telling this story, I am telling Emma Swan's redemption arc, and from the beginning, the one person she truly wanted to show that she _could_ be redeemed was Regina. And anything else that came afterwards was just superfluous and unnecessary to the story. There will be a post script much in the same vein as the prelude. A series of newspaper clippings.

And so the story ends. In January rather than May or March as I'd initially planned. I don't like stories that go on forever and have magical babies and weddings and what-have-you. I left some elements of the story unresolved because they're the sort of things that _cannot_ be fixed easily. Cora being a terrible, abusive mother is one; Regina and Emma's unpleasant childhoods are another. In most life circumstances, those are issues that take years to resolve, so I thought it better to leave them open to interpretation.

I want to thank everyone who stuck by the story, the clippings section should be up within the next few days.

Soundtrack : 8 tracks dot com slash anamatics/the-return-ost


	14. Chapter 14

**The Return**

_a fanfic by anamatics_

* * *

**Post - Clippings**

**Swan Confident in Lady Knights' Playoff Chances**

_Storybrooke Mirror, Feb 2nd, 2013_

STORYBROOKE - As the basketball season starts to come to a close, the playoff picture is becoming clearer by the day, and Interim-Coach of the Storybrooke Lady Knights likes her team's chances based on conference standings as they stand now.

"We're going to have to play Westpoint in the opening round if things continue as they are now," Swan explained during a telephone interview following her victory over a talented Bangor team that is currently in hot pursuit of the Lady Knights' number one overall record. "We played them back at the beginning of January, and matched up well against them."

Barring a catastrophe, Swan has helped to coach this team into a position where they can be within striking distance, again, of a state title. If the team continues on their current path, it will be a tribute truly fit for late coach, Leo Blanchard.

**Sidebar: A New Start**

_Storybrooke Mirror, Feb 7th, 2013_

Everyone knows the story of Emma Swan's fall from grace in a city across the country. Once considered an embarrassment to the very name of the town she'd once called home, Swan has worked her way steadily back into Storybrooke's good graces.

It hasn't been an easy road for Swan. Growing up an orphan that was shunted from home to home within the community, Swan was part of a Maine Child Protective Services pilot program that kept her central to a community, rather than a string of group homes and fosters all over the state.

"In a sense, it was that program that has given me roots," Swan explains. "I met a lot of other foster kids after I left Storybrooke, but none of them had roots like I did. None of them had a place that they could definitively say, 'Yeah, I'm from there'."

Swan was offered a position by her former coach Leo Blanchard as an assistant in September, taking over for Finn Mulligan, who had accepted a position at UMass Lowell as an assistant. With Mr. Blanchard's unfortunate death in December, the responsibility of taking on the stewardship of this talented Lady Knights team has fallen firmly onto Swan's shoulders.

Despite her less-than-warm welcome upon returning to town, Swan is grateful for the challenge of coaching. "I'm grateful for the opportunity to provide a service to the school and the community. Leo left behind a great legacy and I only hope that I can come close to his success."

So far, since Swan has taken over, the team has lost a single game. They are firmly in first place in the AA Varsity division, with their closest completion three games back. With only five regular season games remaining before the playoffs, Swan is liking her chances.

**Storybrooke's Star Garnering Top Offers**

_Kennebec Journal, Feb 12th, 2013_

STORYBROOKE - Briannan Montclair, starting guard for the Storybrooke Lady Knights (15p, 6ast, 1.7 stl) is starting to attract attention as her team continues on its historic run through the season. After former head coach Leo Blanchard suffered a fatal heart attack, the team has rattled off 7 wins and only one loss to an out of conference opponent in Portland High School. These wins are drawing attention to the 5' 8" senior, who is looking to play ball in college next year.

Sources close to Montclair say that she has been approached with offers from the University of New Hampshire and the University of Hartford, the latter of which has posted at-large NCAA Tournament bids out of the America East conference twice in the past five years.

Coaches say that they like Montclair's measurable and hustle on the court, and say that they think that a run through the playoffs could garner some offers from higher-profile schools.

**New England Basketball Recruiting Roundup**

_Rivals, Feb 17th, 2013_

STORYBROOKE, ME - 5"8' Senior Guard Briannan Montclair (15 p, 6 ast, 1.7 stl) has received offers from Hartford, New Hampshire and, most recently, Boston College. This ACC offer constitutes the only major conference basketball scholarship out of the state of Maine since Montclair's coach, Emma Swan was offered by Fresno State.

**Swan's Team Takes Opening Round**

_Portland Press Herald, Feb 19th, 2013_

BANGOR – It isn't Leo Blanchard's team any more. The late, great coach of the Storybrooke Lady Knights left his team in the capable hands of a former protégé, Emma Swan, a member of his lone state championship team. Swan coached a nearly perfect game, led by the impressive double-double performance by starting point guard Briannan Montclair.

Montclair hit her first four three pointers and was nearly lights out in the paint as well. She recorded two steals and had twelve assists in the Lady Knight's 75-52 rout of Wespoint High School's eighth-seeded team. Lisa Matthews recorded eleven rebounds, a career high, as well as eight points that help to put the game away for Storybrooke.

The team will play again tomorrow night against the winner of the Bangor/Bar Harbor two-seven matchup _(more after the jump)_

**Champions Once More**

_Storybrooke Mirror, March 1st, 2013_

STORYBROOKE – After nearly a decade, Storybrooke stands supreme once more, first among women's basketball in the state of Maine. The overtime victory over a talented Bangor team that scored a last second three pointer to force the game into extra minutes will go down in the annals of Storybrooke's history as one of the most exciting that has ever been played.

Bri Montclair shot 8-12 from the field with eight assists as well as five rebounds and a single steal. This performance, as well as the performance of Lisa Matthews and Jess Pinkerton were enough to secure a 68-65 victory over Bangor at the Lady Knights' home court last night.

Interim coach Emma Swan was beside herself following the game. "I told the kids in December, I told them that if we did this, we'd do it for Leo. I'm just so proud of them, really. They played a great game against a really good team, and even if it took five extra minutes, it was well worth it."

**Coaching Retrospective, Swan's Perfect Season**

_Storybrooke Mirror, March 15, 2013_

If one were to look up Storybrooke's notable daughters, Emma Swan would probably be at the top of the list, as she is the one who fell from grace and dared to come back. Over the course of history there have been heroes and villains in this town, and for the longest time, Emma Swan was cast firmly into the role of the anti-hero.

Now though, she is a hero to the town once more, but not for the reasons that one might thing. Sure, winning a state championship in the face of such adversity is an accomplishment in and of itself, but what Swan has done with her time in Storybrooke is even more remarkable than simply that.

"I was offered a second chance by everyone in this town, and I took it," Swan said following her overtime victory over Bangor.

Working with a local attorney, Swan was able to establish a case to have her name exonerated for the crime she was convicted of, but did not commit. The paperwork was signed in late January, just as the Lady Knights were poised to start their championship run. Swan has never commented publicly on it, but friends close to her say that she is going to use the change in her societal status to return to school and pursue an education degree over the summer and then hopefully return to coaching next fall.

This reporter, at least, hopes the best for her return to Storybrooke.

* * *

and here we are, finally the end. And just a few days before season three starts and they're all fucked off on a boat again.

A note:

- I chose to set Storybrooke on Mt. Desert Island in Maine, in a place that is actually called Tremont. It boarders Arcadia National Park and the town of Bar Harbor takes up the other half of the island. A single bridge connects the island to the mainland and Bangor is about 40 minutes away. If you look at some of the maps that they put up in the show, Storybrooke is obviously on this part of the Maine coast, if not in this particular spot. However, the location suited me, as my initial idea was to have the Mills family just be vacationing there and Bar Harbor is a big tourist spot.

I want to thank everyone who has stuck with this story from the beginning. I hope you all enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Thank you for your kind words.

Soundtrack : 8 tracks dot com slash anamatics/the-return-ost


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